


Blacktyde Chronicles - AN-free Version

by bluRaaven



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Adventure, Blacktyde Chronicles, Bruma, Character Background, Childhood, Cultural Differences, Elsweyr, Explicit Language, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Imperial City, Khajiit Lore, M/M, Mild Gore, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 63
Words: 372,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluRaaven/pseuds/bluRaaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wulf's adventures, edited into kindle-friendly format and without any author's notes for those who, like me, love to read stories on their ebooks.  Contains BTS and AWWY, Bruma and the first part of HT.</p><p>If you are unfamiliar with the story, you may wish to check out the regular Blacktyde Chronicles.  Other than that, enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. BTS

**Author's Note:**

> 'xxxx' signifies a major change of scene or POV, while 'oooo' is the equivalent of a blank line which doesn't otherwise show in 'mobi' format.

Wulfryk's head banged against the hard wood of the bench he was lying on as the wagon hit another hole in the road.  Ouch.  He could count the number of holes by the number of bruises that were forming on his temple.  It was hardly his favourite pastime, but there was little else he could do, ever since he had been captured and tossed onto the wagon four days ago, like he was some common criminal.  Which he wasn't.  Most of the time, anyway. 

Wulfryk lay motionless, his eyes closed against the bright sunlight, listening to the creaking of the wheels and cursing the day he had set out on this venture.  A few months ago it had seemed like a great idea. Start anew, build a life.  What on, he wasn't quite sure.  But he had left the hot sands, the azure sea and all those hauntingly beautiful emerald oases of Elsweyr and travelled north, through Cyrodiil and along the border to Hammerfell, steering towards the homeland of his ancestors.  Skyrim.  Although Wulf was a Nord he had never seen the country that his father used to tell him so many stories about.  Maybe they had never been real; the Divines knew his father had liked to indulge in a bottle.  Or half a dozen.  

It had been just him and his father, who had left his birthplace over something he never told Wulf about.  The one time Wulf had been brave enough to ask, his father had already been deep in his cups and he had lashed out at his son, cursing him, only to break down sobbing and begging for forgiveness.  "I'm sorry," he had wailed, tears and snot running down his face.  "I'm so sorry, my boy, I'm so sorry.  I won't do it again, I promise, it will be alright.  When we go back, everything will be alright.  We will live in a castle again.  I didn't mean to do it, I swear it was a mistake," he cried before promptly falling asleep.  And that was all Wulf knew about his family history.  

As soon as he had been old enough to travel on his own, he had run, leaving behind his old man and his drunken ramblings and their tiny shack that had smelled like sour ale, stale sweat and vomit.  Wulfryk didn't look back even once.  

He travelled.  He learned to fight so that he could make a living as a sellsword.  One day he was hired as a guard for a caravan of merchants and his journey took him to the far and exotic country of Elsweyr, where he decided to stay on a whim.  He was content there, but never truly happy, an inexplicable desire compelling him to move again and his heart longing after something he could not name.  Leaving his friends and the country he had come to love but could never bring himself to call home had not been easy, but it seemed the decision regarding his departure had been taken from him.  He had become twitchy and irritable, taking long walks under the bright canopy of stars and often staring into the distance, until finally he could stand it no longer and set out once again. 

Only to end up as a prisoner.  It was a cruel joke the gods had played on him and he had laughed at first, hysterically, until both his guards and fellow captives had thrown uneasy looks his way.  

He had crossed the border to Skyrim a fortnight ago and resupplied in a town that he could no longer recall the name of.  The innkeeper had warned him that there were outlaws roaming the woodlands and hills nearby, telling him to not stray off the main road and to find himself some travelling companions, if possible.  So he had been happy when he met a group of fellow travellers headed in the same direction as he was.  Judging by their armour and weapons they were soldiers, or maybe guards, patrolling the southern border.  He did not ask them any questions, seeking only protection in numbers until he was past the territory where the robbers were known to strike, and they in turn agreed for him to join their company.  

For another week the journey stayed uneventful and Wulfryk allowed himself to relax and enjoy the scenery.  In retrospect, he never should have let his guard down.  When the ambush was sprung, he barely managed to pull out his sword, roaring "BANDITS" at the top of his lungs to warn his comrades.  Then the assailants were on them and Wulf did not even have time to notice that, surprisingly, all attackers were wearing Imperial armour before he was forced to fight for his life.  When archers took out one flank and cavalry charged another, the battle was over as quickly as it had begun, and Wulf was one of the few still standing.  They surrendered, and there was a commotion as Wulfryk insistently tried to explain to the Imperial in charge that he really had thought they were being waylaid by robbers.  The Imperials showed complete indifference towards him and, just like the bandits they claimed _not_ to be, they relieved him of all his possessions, bound his hands, and loaded him onto a cart.  

It turned out the outlaws had been the very ones with whom he had sought refuge.  

Their ride did not last long.  By the time everybody had been rounded up, searched, and restrained, it was afternoon.  It turned out the Imperials had planned ahead and secured a shed where they could keep a close eye on the prisoners during the night.  And conveniently, it had another room where the prisoners could be questioned separately.  Wulfryk tried to not show any fear as a guard ushered him through the door, though his knees felt a little weak and his hands shook slightly.  The red-haired legionnaire seated behind a desk was the first Nord he had seen with the Imperials. The other man looked up fleetingly before asking, "What's your name?" 

"Brynjolf," Wulf answered without hesitating.  Nobody would be able to call him out on the lie, because he had not told his name to anybody.  

"Where do you hail from, Brynjolf?" the man enquired further.  He had a calm manner and he kept his hands on a logbook in a nonthreatening way. 

"Dawnstar," Wulfryk replied, choosing the only Nord town he could actually name.  

The redheaded man jotted his answer down in his book and even though it was upside-down, Wulf could decipher 'Brynjolf of Dawnstar' written out in a neat script.  When he finished writing the man turned his attention back to Wulf.  "I am Thorald of Solitude.  The soldiers tell me you thought we were bandits.  Why?"  

"I thought you were bandits because that's what the innkeeper warned me about.  Back in the neat little town a quarter day's travel from the border."  All true, that.  

Thorald nodded his understanding before continuing. "Do you have any idea in whose company you were travelling?" 

Wulf sighed.  He did not.  "No. Care to enlighten me?" 

Thorald looked surprised, but he shook his head.  "Regrettably, I can't tell you.  Not yet."  Instead, he continued his questioning.  

Was it the first time Brynjolf had travelled to Skyrim? – Yes. 

Why did he journey to Skyrim? – To honour the last wish of his dying father.  It was a bit dramatic, but close enough to the truth for Wulfryk to pass it off as such. 

Did he have any living relatives? – No. 

The questions continued in a similar way and by the end of the interview Wulf was fairly certain that he had convinced Thorald that he was not involved in… whatever he was being accused of being involved in. 

Finally the torrent ended, and after he had jotted down the last of 'Brynjolf's' answers, Thorald spoke.  "If you are really innocent, then you have nothing to fear from us.  We cannot release you just yet, however, so you will probably travel with us all the way to Helgen.  Your name is not on the lists of the wanted criminals.  I will try to convince the captain to let you go.  Try to get some rest."  

Wulfryk had gotten his rest; quite a lot of it, in fact.  If Thorald was trying, then he wasn't doing so very hard.  Four days he spent in that bumpy cart and on four nights he had been interrogated, always by somebody new.  And when they asked him about some stormy cloaks he had answered truthfully, that no, he had no fucking idea what they were talking about and quite frankly he did not give a rat's ass; expressing his responses in much nicer terms, of course. 

Today was the fifth day, and in the afternoon they were to arrive at their destination.  Wulf opened his eyes and squinted up at the sky.  It had always been the same driver, the same guards, and the same horse pulling the same cart with the very same four prisoners.  The Imperials were nothing if not predictable.  And yet he had not found an opportunity to escape.  They were just too heavily guarded to risk an attempt.  He had, however, unravelled the knots in the hemp rope that bound his hands, retying them in a way that would allow him to slip off his bonds in a moment.  That was on the first day.  On the second he managed to filch a knife from one of the soldiers on guard duty.  One did not live with Khajiit and not pick up some of their sneaky tricks; lockpicking and a certain sleight of hand were useful in many situations.  But that was as far as he had dared to go.  Hopefully, when they arrived at Helgen an opportune moment would present itself.  Somehow he was not willing to entirely trust Thorald, who had visited him once, apologising for his discomfort. 

All that remained for Wulfryk to do was to lie on the bench, watch the countryside pass by and listen to his fellow convicts talk.  He did not know their names, so he just dubbed them Chatty, Horse and Muffle.  Horse was a thief who looked astonishingly like his namesake and Muffle had not said much around his gag, which suited Wulf just fine, since Chatty did more than enough talking for the four of them.  Right now Chatty was sitting opposite him, while Muffle sat on the far side of the bench to his right side, where he had slid after Wulf had determinedly kept poking him with his foot, so that he could stretch out comfortably.  The man somewhat resembled a caterpillar, wrapped as he was in enough bonds to restrain a bear.  Wulf briefly wondered what he had done that made the Imperials so very nervous.  Not that he did not have other things to worry about. 

Wulf had been headed for Helgen, so while he appreciated a ride and a break from all the walking, he only wished that it weren't on a carriage bound for the executioner's block.  That much he had been able to pick up.  He was certain that Chatty had figured it out already.  Horse seemed oblivious and Wulf amused himself by privately wagering how long it would take the thief to find out.  There was no telling what Muffle thought. 

"Hey, you! You're finally awake." 

So Chatty had seen him staring up at the sky.  Bollocks.  Wulf had managed to avoid most of their talks, usually by pretending to be asleep, but he doubted he was getting out of this one.  So, instead of trying, he turned his head to smile up at the blond man.  "Morning, Sunshine," he drawled. 

Chatty seemed happy to have a new victim to pester and continued unfazed. "You walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."  

Yes, he knew that. Luckily he did not have to answer, because Horse did.  

"Damn you Stormcloaks!  Skyrim was fine until you came along.  Empire was nice and lazy." 

It was an argument Wulf had heard dozens of times already, and he allowed his thoughts to drift off, until Horse turned and addressed him. "You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here.  It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."  

Yes, he had figured that one out as well. 

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief," Chatty threw in. 

They were four men on the carriage, which made Wulf wonder if Chatty was insulting somebody.  "Are you trying to hint at something?" he asked the man, who looked puzzled, so Wulf added, "Just wondering who's the lady."  

The Stormcloak got his meaning and grinned broadly, until a loud thump interrupted them and the Imperial soldier driving the carriage shouted "Shut up back there!" 

"Sorry we forgot about you, honey," Wulfryk threw back unfazed at the red-faced man. 

Muffle grunted something and then started coughing quite violently, and Wulf realized after a while that the man was laughing, the first time he had seen him react to anything. 

Horse pointed at Muffle and asked, "And what's with him, huh?" 

At once, all merriment left Chatty.  "Watch your tongue.  You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King," he declared rather frostily. 

"Ulfric?  The Jarl of Windhelm?  You're the leader of the rebellion.  But if they've captured you… oh gods, where are they taking us?" Horse's voice rose with fear, his eyes frantically roving over their captors. 

There it went.  Four and a half days.  It seemed that Horse was gifted with both the looks and brains of his namesake.  Wulfryk closed his eyes again. 

Chatty's next pronouncement did not help to ease the tension, either. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits." 

"No, this can't be happening.  This isn't happening." 

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" 

"Why do you care?" 

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." 

"Rorikstead.  I'm from Rorikstead," said Horse before he started praying frantically. 

Knowing they would never get the thief to shut up Wulf gave up on his nap and glared at Chatty. "My, you know how to cheer them up." 

"Are you always this morose?" 

"Only when I'm about to be executed," Wulf responded. 

"Does it happen often?"  A hint of a smile played around the blond Nord’s mouth. 

Wulf answered with a smile of his own.  "I consider once to be too often." 

The rest of their trip to Helgen passed in silence.  When the carriage clattered over cobblestones instead of the dirt road, Wulf sat up and looked around.  The walls and massive gates of Helgen were lined with Imperial soldiers.  One man in particular stood out, his golden armour shining in the sun.  He looked important, so Wulf turned to Chatty to ask him, "Who is that man?" 

"Who?  Oh, look at him. General Tullius, the military governor.  And it looks like the Thalmor are with him.  Damn elves.  I bet they had something to do with this."  The Stormcloak turned around to spit at the feet of one of their guards. 

When their wagon finally came to a rumbling stop, Chatty sighed before reaching over and shaking Horse. 

"Why are we stopping?" 

"Why do you think?  End of the line."  Chatty got up from his seat.  "Let's hurry.  We shouldn't keep the gods waiting." 

Wulf saw no reason to hurry.  The gods had put him in this predicament, they could damn well wait a little longer; another few decades, if possible. 

The next couple of minutes they stood around while the Imperials called on the various prisoners, confirming what they already knew, namely that none had escaped. 

"Empire loves their damn lists," Chatty muttered dismally. 

Finally it was Wulf's turn, and a Nord standing next to an Imperial woman and holding a roll of parchment pointed at him.  "Who are you?"  

"Brynjolf of Dawnstar," Wulfryk answered, as he had done so many times already. 

"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman.  Captain.  What should we do?  He's not on the list." 

Before the captain could answer, however, Thorald arrived seemingly out of nowhere to vouch for Wulf's innocence. The Nord felt a slight stirring of hope, but the feeling soured when a heated argument ensued; Thorald and the other soldier, Hadvar, were of the opinion he should be freed, arguing that it was bad luck he had been captured with the Stormcloaks, and that they couldn't randomly execute innocent travellers.  Sadly, the Imperial woman did not share their opinion. 

Then Horse took off, believing that he could make it out while there was a distraction.  He did not make it far before the archers put a stop to his breakout attempt.  The captain was not amused.  Rounding on her men, she yelled "Forget the list!  He goes to the block!"  

What a bitch.  Wulfryk found the Empire's love of _their damn lists_ to be sadly lacking. 

There was a brief pause while General Tullius spoke to Ulfric and a priest of Arkay intoned a prayer – one, Wulf realized with a sudden pang, that was meant for their souls.  Until now he had been able to keep the fear at bay, but he felt it keenly now, emanating from the prisoners all around him.  There was not even the slightest chance of escape.  Wulfryk was no stranger to fighting, but there was something dreadful and mortifying about being led to one's death like a pig for slaughter.  Wulf felt his breath quicken, and he alternately began to shiver and sweat.

Finally, one of the prisoners snapped: not being able to stand the tension any longer, he barrelled past the guards, interrupting the priest. "For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!"  

Wulfryk had to admire the Stormcloak soldier for his guts.  He was soon distracted, however, when he felt – or maybe heard something that made his hair stand on end.  A deep rumble resounded across the valley, rolling down from the mountains even as a hot wind picked up.  The air throbbed with energy and as if on cue, all the horses went mad.  The tumult lasted a while. Some riders were thrown, while others struggled to regain control over the beasts.  One soldier brought his mount to a halt not far away from where Wulfryk was standing.  Looking at the animal he could see its eyes were rolled back and wide with terror as it stood frozen, nostrils flared and breathing so hard it rocked back and forth.  Never in his entire life had Wulf seen another being in such mortal fear. 

"What is going on?"  "What's happening?"  The cries were repeated back and forth as the crowd, soldiers and prisoners alike, shuffled around, casting nervous gazes towards the heavens.  Ultimately, General Tullius had to bellow for order before things calmed down.  

"It's nothing.  Carry on!" the military governor commanded, and the first convict, the one who had stormed forward, was led to the block.  The captain went up to the man, kicking him hard to make him kneel in the dirt.  Her general stood only a couple of feet away.  Wulfryk felt his heartbeat pick up speed while he watched the Nord laying his head on the block.  He was not looking at the prisoner, however, nor at the blade of the headsman's axe as it rose slowly, but at the captain, who stood directly behind the prisoner, but did not hold him down.  And when the weapon descended with a sickening thud, she looked right back at Wulfryk, and then pointed at him. 

"You're next."


	2. BTS

_You're next._

Wulfryk felt his throat go dry as he swallowed convulsively and made his way to the block on leaden legs, while two soldiers dragged away the headless corpse that a few seconds ago had been a living, breathing man. _Don't resist.  Don't give them any reason to doubt you_.  The archers would turn him into a pincushion same as they had Horse if he were to try anything right now.  Just as he reached the bloody stump, another cry rang out, so close this time that Wulf faltered in his steps and involuntarily looked up.  Recalling the frantic horse he was sure that his own face was distorted with the same fear.  Something was wrong.  Something was very, very wrong, he thought, even as a pair of rough hands grabbed him and a sharp kick made his knees buckle.  His cheek was pressed into the sticky, still-warm blood of his predecessor and its scent flooded his nose.  He saw the executioner's blade rise slowly, as it had done before, and then the pressure lifted off his back. 

That very moment Wulfryk felt a calm settle over him that came from utter abandonment of hope.  He would die today.  He would die, but first he would take as many of those arrogant bastards with him as possible.  Starting with the captain, who had just made the biggest mistake of her life.  As with the previous prisoner, she did not hold him down, too assured that he had already been defeated.  If he was going down, then so was she, and maybe he could take General Tullius hostage.  The military governor was standing only a couple of feet away, too close by far to pull out his sword in time.  

Imperials were nothing if not predictable. 

Wulfryk calmly disposed of his bonds as he dug his toes into the earth, his fingers clenching around the hilt of his stolen knife.  His entire body was tense with anticipation.  As the headsman's axe reached its peak, a heartbeat before it swung town to tear through his flesh and bones, he made his move.  At once he leaped backwards, spinning around before he could even fully right himself, and it appeared as if his plan would work out flawlessly, for the captain had not yet registered a need to defend herself. 

That was when Wulfryk felt his body battered by a force so powerful, he lost his balance mid-leap and was thrown to the ground in an ungraceful heap at the feet of the very person that should have died by his hands.  His head and back collided with the hard ground, and his vision went white from the jarring impact.  For the merest fraction of a second his eyes connected with those of the captain, and she saw her death reflected in their blue depths, even as a more rational part of her brain took in his unbound hands and the knife clenched in one of them.  

And just when Wulfryk thought his day couldn't get any worse, he beheld the dragon descend from the skies, a gale following in its wake, to perch on the highest tower of Helgen's fortress.  There was a dragon.  A bloody _dragon_.  And Wulf felt his mind shutting down; his only thought that it was funny that his father had forgotten to mention that tiny detail in all of his tales. 

The monstrous beast opened its jaws wide and roared a deafening sound that for a second stopped Wulf's heart in its tracks, before it resumed its stuttering beat.  It might be a sign of how hard he had hit his head, but Wulfryk could swear he discerned a fell voice that carried on the dragon's foul breath.  

It felt like an eternity as he lay there, staring up, but suddenly he felt somebody shaking him.  It was Chatty, who had run up to him and now helped him to his feet, even as Wulf's ears rang and the world around him spun.  They made their way towards the nearest shelter, a guard tower, and Wulf stumbled over the headsman's sprawling corpse, all the while conscious of just how close his brush with death had been.  

Once inside, Chatty immediately pulled the door shut behind them and leaned against it, hands braced on his knees.  He straightened after a brief while and addressed somebody to his left. "Can the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages," a deep voice answered him from the shadows, the tone verging on sarcastic and – disappointed?  Wulf was surprised to discover it belonged to Muffle.  Who too was no longer bound and gagged, Wulf could see, now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior of the tower.  Neither were the other soldiers, which struck the Nord as odd; for a bunch of defeated captives the rebels sure were well organized.  And bristling with weapons. How—?

His thoughts were interrupted when in the next moment Muffle, or Jarl Ulfric, as he undoubtedly preferred to be addressed, caught sight of Wulfryk. 

"You!" he growled, green eyes narrowing. "For all that kicking of yours... I should..." 

 What had Horse said?  The man was the leader of a rebellion and, oh, a king.  Wulf should probably apologise.  

"What?" he interrupted the other man instead.  "I did not hear you complain," he said, rendering the entire room silent.  The dragon chose that very moment to bring down a part of the tower and to stick its hideous head through the opening.  Peekaboo!  It opened its jaws once more, but this time a jet of flame shot out, so hot it melted stone and incinerated the soldiers hiding further up.  

Where he stood a story lower, Wulfryk felt like he was being roasted alive, the hot air painful to breathe in, and perhaps it truly was an indication that he was losing his wits, but amidst the shrieks of the dying he had _heard_ the dragon speak.  The words were unknown to him, the ancient language grating and discordant, bringing to mind the rasping of scales on stone.  

When the dragon retracted its head once more, Wulf carefully inched closer to the opening, chancing a look outside.  What he saw took his breath away. Helgen was in utter disarray.  There were people milling around, screaming even as they frantically ran to and fro, searching for escape.  Most of the town's wooden structures were on fire.  Several soldiers had their bows trained on the dragon, but to little avail, as the beast swooped down to sow destruction before flying out of reach again. 

"Let's get the hell out of here."

Wulf turned his head to look at Chatty, who had made his way over.

Peering through the billowing smoke, the man pointed to the far right.  "There's the gates.  I'll meet you there, or in Sovngarde."  

Below, Ulfric was bellowing orders at his soldiers, having forgotten about the other Nord for the moment.  Chatty's plan was as good as any, Wulf thought.  Drawing in a deep breath, he decided to take the direct route and jumped from the ledge, landing on the second floor of a building some feet below.  It looked like the dragon had torn away the roof and a part of it was on fire.  Down here the smoke was much worse, obscuring almost all sight.  Wulf pressed his sleeve against his mouth, trying to breathe in as little of the acrid vapour as possible.  He made his way down, cautiously checking the skies before stepping outside.  He did not see the dragon, but nearby he noticed a figure he recognized. 

It was Hadvar, who called out to him "Still alive, prisoner?  Keep close to me if you want to stay that way!"  

Amidst all the chaos and the flames, and even though there was a thrice-damned dragon tearing the town apart, Wulfryk found time enough to pause and show the man _exactly_ what he thought about going with somebody who would have watched his beheading without batting an eyelash.  He did not try to make himself heard above the clamour, not that he needed to.  Some gestures were universally known and needed no explanation. 

As a violent tremor shook the town, Wulf sprinted across an open space, only to dive for the safety of a wall when he heard the telltale thump of wings.  When he looked up, the dragon was settled on the wall he was pressing himself against; Wulf could have tickled its belly if he so desired.  Which he absolutely did not.  At last the beast took flight again, the pressure from its enormous wings driving Wulf to his knees.  He risked a glimpse from his hiding place, only to make out that the gates had been closed. 

He wanted to brain the blithering idiot who had first thought of barring the gates, hemming in soldiers and civilians alike and turning the town into a death trap.  It was not like they would keep their opponent out, the damn fire-breathing lizard was _airborne_ and it would go where it pleased.  Wulf saw a motion out of the corner of his eye and spotted Chatty making his way over, face grim, and holding a bloody axe.  

"Somebody's sealed the gates shut.  The bloody elves, if you ask me.  We could not get them open without Jarl Ulfric.  The only other way out is through the keep, unless you fancy climbing the walls."  Well, that explained a few things. 

"Where's the keep?" Wulf asked, because a wind had driven the smoke closer, plunging everything into an impenetrable gloom.  

Chatty pointed to their left before grabbing Wulf's arm and pulling him along.  "That way!"  

They reached the fortress without incident, entering through a small side door since the main entrance was barred.  Chatty navigated them through a maze of corridors and through a door on the left into what looked like a storeroom.  There were all manner of things lying around and it did not take them long to find what they needed.  Hurriedly they exchanged their filthy rags for proper clothes and equipped themselves with arms and armour.  Then it was back to the abandoned corridor and down a flight of steps, their footfalls echoing loudly in the eerie quiet of the keep.  

Wulf scratched at his cheek, where the blood of the beheaded soldier had dried and begun to pull at his skin and tickle as it peeled off in flakes of rusty brown.  It felt disconcertingly familiar; his warpaint had been like that once.  He tried not to think about it, to ignore the burning brand of memories of a past he had left behind long ago, and concentrated upon his guide and their way instead. 

When the two men came to a closed door, Chatty cursed vividly.  Normally, Wulfryk didn't let a lock stop him, but he had lost his set of lockpicks to the Imperials.  The door looked too solid to try to break through, but perhaps together they could unhinge it.  As they were debating their next course of action, Wulf suddenly motioned Chatty into silence.  Both men strained their ears and sure enough, they could make out stifled voices on the other side of the door.  Crouching low to either side, they listened as the voices swiftly grew louder. Wulf drew his weapon, Chatty following suit, as the speaker began shouting commands.  Wulf peeked through the keyhole.  He could not make out much, but it was enough.  Someone was in for a nasty surprise.  Captain Bitch.  Wulfryk smiled ferociously.  He had a score to settle.  He lifted three fingers to Chatty, who nodded his understanding. 

The soldiers drew closer and now Wulf could make out the sound of footfalls, before there was a scraping noise and the door swung outward, providing a convenient hiding place for him.  As the first man walked through, Wulf grabbed the door and slammed it into him, knocking the soldier off his feet.  Before the dazed Imperial had a chance to react, Chatty split his head open with a single, vicious blow.  One down, two to go.  

At least now the odds were even, though in the confined space of the narrow corridor the two Nords were decidedly at an advantage, their size granting them the crucial reach.  Shields up, they stormed forward as one, bearing down upon the resistance of their adversaries, who had no way of evading the attack.  One thing had to be said of the captain: she did not give up easily, putting up a mean fight.  Even as her companion fell, she chose death over surrender.  For that Wulf could respect her. 

And just like that, nothing stood in their way anymore.  Making their way past the corpses, they followed the passageway, Wulfryk trailing after Chatty, until finally they made it out, the noise emanating from behind Helgen's high walls hitting them like a physical blow. 

As he stepped into the warm sunshine, Wulf felt a huge smile creeping up his face and he saw his joy mirrored in Chatty's face. He pulled the Nord into a crushing hug, both of them chortling with relief.  

"I'm Ralof," the other man spoke.

Well, he guessed he couldn't keep calling his friend 'Chatty' forever. Still grinning, he said, "Wulfryk."

Ralof snorted, obviously amused that Wulf had messed around with their Imperial captors. "Look, over there."

Wulf turned his head as Ralof pointed something out in the distance.  There, next to what could have been a stable, a line of horses was picketed.  Keeping a close eye on the skies, Wulf made his way over to them.  Most of the animals still bore full tack.  The cavalrymen had probably left their horses here, before they went to watch the executions in Helgen. 

There were no guards in sight and Wulf swiftly slipped between the animals.  The nervous horses stood huddled as close together as their ropes allowed.  Wulfryk quickly assessed them, ruling out the animals that looked injured, probably due to trying to escape when they heard the dragon.  For himself he chose a black mount, smaller than Skyrim's own huge, lumbering beasts.  Undoubtedly it was a cross between the native animals and the lighter, faster and more agile Imperial horses.  For Ralof he selected a well-built bay mare.  Both horses had no brand, which was well. 'Rightfully stolen' was not a widely accepted title of ownership.

Then, acting on impulse, he cut the high line that tethered the animals together before breaking off a branch and slapping a horse hard across the rump.  The horse jerked violently and broke out in a wild gallop, fleeing Helgen, the other horses giving chase.  Wulf had some trouble keeping his own two steeds from following, struggling to keep the high-strung animals in check. 

He wished the Imperials good luck in rounding up all the other horses and catching up to him.  Quickly, he jogged back to Chatty – _Ralof –_ before they mounted and set off, leaving the dragon's roars and the screams of people and animals being burned alive behind them.  Wulfryk laughed, the pure exhilaration of having survived lifting his spirit as he nudged his mount into a brisk trot.  He could make out the shape of a tall mountain range in the distance and it beckoned to him, promising freedom. 


	3. BTS

"I killed more Imperials than you.  I was counting," Ralof said. 

"Pfft," Wulf snorted, a sound that was picked up by his horse.  He looked down at the animal, wide-eyed.  Sometimes it seemed the horse made fun of its rider.  Turning back to his companion, Wulf answered "You wish.  I lived in Cyrodiil, in the Empire, for years.  I killed lots of people there."

The banter flowed easily between them.  After a week on the road they had grown to know and like each other well.  Ralof had told Wulf how he had been a soldier in Helgen, prior to it becoming an Imperial stronghold.  He had fled then, together with his brothers-in-arms, most of whom belonged to the faction that called themselves 'Stormcloaks' because they supported Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and his claim to the throne.  

When Wulf asked what they had been doing in enemy territory and how they had gotten themselves into the ambush, Ralof's answer only gave rise to more questions.  

"We were expecting Tullius, but not his reinforcements, or the elves," the blond warrior muttered darkly.  "Certainly not the dragon."  He looked up, nervously scanning the sky, as did his companion.  Only then did he realize that he had forgotten himself.  Despite being a friend, Wulf was not a Stormcloak.  "I already said too much." Ralof appeared apologetic, but would say no more on the topic and Wulf knew that he would get no more out of him, so he did not push.  

It was his turn to entertain them with tales of his own travels and he did so at great length and to the amusement of them both. 

They had made good speed on the road and today before nightfall they were to reach the village of Riverwood, where Ralof had been born and his sister still lived with her husband.  They had met precious few people on the road and none who knew what had happened in Helgen.  Likewise, nobody from the town had caught up to them and therefore Wulf felt safe in assuming that nobody knew who he was.  The villagers might know or suspect that Ralof was a Stormcloak, but there was no proof and no Imperial list to condemn them. 

The day was slowly nearing its end when they rounded a bend in the road and Ralof pointed out something in the distance.  It was a ruin atop the mountainside across from where they were now.  It looked ancient, long stone structures jutting out from the earth in half circles, like the desiccated ribcage of a beast long dead.

"That is Bleak Falls Barrow," Ralof informed Wulfryk.  "I never understood how my sister could live in its shadow," he continued.  "That place gives me the chills.  The good news is that Riverwood is not far away.  You cannot see it from here, because it lies in a dell, but we will be there before the sun sets." 

Just as Ralof had predicted, Riverwood came into view half an hour later.  The village had watchtowers and no walls, but the two guards they passed did not even glance in their direction. It seemed surreal in this peaceful place that only week ago a dragon had swooped down from the skies and destroyed a whole town.  The same fate could easily meet the people here.  Trying to shake such dark thoughts, Wulf looked around. 

To his right there was a row of houses and a small shop, the Riverwood Trader, and to his left a smithy with the forge built upon a roofed terrace.  The coals were glowing an angry orange, but except for a few discarded tools there was no sign of the blacksmith.  Voices were coming from the open doorway of the adjoining house and Wulf turned his head, but Ralof pulled up his hood and quickly rode past.  

Further in the town a group of four children played next to a small brook, trying to catch some frogs, judging by the happy squeals, splashes and loud croaks. 

At that very moment a boy looked up and stared at Ralof, and suddenly jumping up he ran over to him.  "Uncle!" the boy yelled excitedly.

Ralof chuckled with mirth. "Hello, Frodnar.  Still out and about at this hour?"

The look on the boy's face was somewhat guilty, but soon enough his eyes lit up.  "Uncle, you've got a _horse_."

His agitation made Ralof laugh out loud and he bent down and picked his nephew up, placing him in the saddle in front of himself.  "Better say goodbye to your friends, Frodnar.  You know your mother will have both our hides if you're not at home before dusk."

The boy, Frodnar, waved at his friends, who had forgone playing in favour of staring at the mounted men in open-mouthed awe.  Ralof clucked his tongue at his mare and urged her into a light canter that had his nephew whooping excitedly and throwing his arms up in the air. 

Wulf followed at a more leisurely pace through the town's main road, and turning right he rode over a lush meadow where several shaggy cattle grazed.  There was a small dirt track and at its end a cluster of wooden cottages stood.  Wulf arrived in time to hear Frodnar shout "Momma, look who I found!  It's Uncle Ralof," he added, in case his mother had not noticed. 

"Ralof, why..." Gerdur started, before turning to her son.  "Frodnar, why don't you tell your father we have guests?"  The boy nodded and ran off, eager to bring his father the news.  While Gerdur waited until he was out of hearing distance, the two men dismounted, Wulf taking the reins so that Ralof could hug his sister, kissing her cheek affectionately.  Unlike their riders the horses did not get along very well, bickering all the time, and Wulf had to swat both their heads to keep them apart.  Handling the horses gave him an excuse to listen in on the siblings' conversation without appearing to be nosy, which he, admittedly, was. 

"Ralof, is everything alright?  I thought you were with Ulfric," Gerdur began and quickly broke off. 

Ralof nodded.  "I was, but..." He too cast a glance in Wulf's direction before continuing. "Things did not go as planned."  Trying to make light of what had happened to them, he added "Nearly got a shave from the Imperial headsman."

"Those bastards!" his sister spat, throwing her arms around her little brother as if to assure herself that he really was unharmed.  "Oh, Ralof!  But what about Ulfric? Did he escape too?" 

"Ulfric... last I saw him he was fine.  Thorald made sure of that."  Ralof's face became serious once again.  "It is good you sent the boy away, sister.  We need to talk, but here is not the proper place."  He turned to Wulf, who was watching the horses graze, glad the animals had forgone fighting for now.  "Oh, and I almost forgot: this is Wulfryk."

Gerdur greeted her guest with a smile and a firm handshake.  "All friends of Ralof's are friends of mine and welcome here."  She quickly took charge of the situation.  "Well, you must be tired and hungry, and you two will need to bathe; you smell worse than the animals you rode on."  After a week with no change of clothes, Wulf guessed they probably did stink.  "Ralof, why don't you see Hod about some spare clothes – I am sure he has some that will fit – while I help Wulfryk with the horses?"  She shooed her brother off and ordered "Follow me; there is a paddock behind the house where you can leave the horses." 

"Yes, ma'am."  Wulf tossed Gerdur a cocky grin, in answer to which she only shook her head.  He liked her genuine hospitality and no-nonsense attitude.  "But please call me Wulf.  Everyone else does." 

Together they made quick work of what would have taken a single person quite a while.  The horses were rid of their tack, brushed down, watered, checked for stones in their hooves, and happily munching on a big pile of hay within minutes. 

With the animals taken care of, it was the humans' turn.  Wulf found Ralof bathing in the river that flowed through the town and for which Riverwood was named.  There was a pile of clean clothes, a washrag and soap lying next to the water's edge.  Wulf undressed, grabbed the soap and waded into the water.  It was icy cold and he swore colourfully, more from the shock than because he was really cold.  His Nord blood protected him well against the elements and Wulf enjoyed the prickling sensation that started in his hands and toes.  He washed thoroughly, using up almost half of the bar of soap, and by the time he clambered out of the water and onto the bank, Ralof was already gone.  Wulf used his old clothes to dry himself, quickly threw on the shirt and breeches Hod had been kind enough to lend him, and afterwards he laundered his own filthy garments. 

When he returned to the house, he was greeted by laughter and warmth and he hung his wet clothes close to the fireplace to dry.  There was a buzz of activity with everybody working and talking at once and Wulf joined to help, chopping vegetables under Gerdur's stern gaze while Frodnar darted around underfoot, getting in everyone's way.  The only thing that dampened his spirits was that Hod glared daggers at Wulf whenever he talked to the man's wife.  In a moment of calm right before dinner the lumberjack made his way over to where Wulf was seated.  Gerdur was busy over the kettle, stirring the stew and adding herbs. With her back turned to them Wulf felt a certain desire to hide behind Ralof, who sat next to him. 

"If Ralof says you're a friend, I don't question it.  But I gotta warn you: don't you get any ideas about my wife."  The threat was clear in the man's tone. 

"Hod!"  Gerdur's voice cracked through the following silence like a whip.  The backlighting from the fireplace made her appear taller than she was, standing with her hands braced on her hips.  

Wulf sighed.  Couldn't he catch a break once in a while?  "Don't worry.  I'll sooner molest Ralof here than your wife," Wulf answered the protective husband, and patted Ralof, whose brows shot up, on the shoulder. 

Hod turned bright red and stammered an apology, Gerdur covered her mouth with her hands to stifle her chuckles, and Frodnar piped up "What does 'molest' mean, momma?"

Wulfryk's grin turned outright evil as he crooked his fingers at the boy and in a conspiratorial whisper told him, "It means to tickle somebody really bad." 

The atmosphere was much lighter during their meal, and soon after the boy grew tired and Gerdur saw him off to bed. Then the adults' talk turned towards serious matters.  Wulf let Ralof recount what had happened at Helgen, occasionally throwing in his own observations.  Because the mill that made for a great part of Riverwood's income belonged to Gerdur, the woman was considered to be the leader of the town.  As such, she was concerned about the people.  Should a dragon attack, they were utterly without defence.  While Wulf helped himself to another bowl of stew, the others discussed how to deal with the threat. 

"This is a matter for the Council," Gerdur finally decided, and got up, tapping Ralof and Wulfryk on the shoulder.  "Come on, you two.  I have to tell Alvor and Delphine."  

"What do you need us for?" Ralof protested, slumping in the chair he was evidently very comfortable in.  

"Because _you_ have seen that dragon!" his sister replied.  "The word of three is worth more than that of one."  

The blond warrior got up with a heavy sigh and began to tie his shoes.

Wulf just followed his friend's lead, leaving behind his full bowl with a heavy heart, but then Gerdur did not strike him as a person he would want to keep waiting.  The woman was energetic and authoritative, and in a strange way he trusted her already as he did few strangers.  

"Do we tell anybody else?" Ralof enquired as they stepped outside into the cool evening.  The last traces of the sunset coloured the horizon a vivid turquoise and the first stars twinkled overhead.  

Gerdur shook her head and gathered her skirts in one hand as they crossed the field.  "It will only spread fear.  There is nothing we can do tonight anyway, but tomorrow we will have to decide on a course of action.  Ah, here we are."  They stopped and Gerdur knocked at the door, calling out "Alvor!"  

Ralof leaned over to Wulf, who still wasn't quite sure why he was here too, and whispered in his ear that Alvor was the town's smith and that it was no secret that he supported the Empire.  It explained why he had been so nervous when they had first entered Riverwood.  

After a brief while the door opened and the smith stuck his head out.  "Gerdur?  What is – Ralof?"  His gaze swept to the blond warrior who would not meet the other man's eyes.  

"Helgen was attacked by a dragon," Gerdur stated, getting right down to the point as always.  There was no way to sugar-coat news as grave as this anyway.  

Alvor clearly believed them to be out of their minds and obviously geared up to say so.

Ralof beat him to it, looking up for the first time.  "It's true," he said quietly.  "Helgen is... destroyed."  

The smith recoiled, shock written on his face, and swallowed thickly before asking "What about my boy?"  When nobody answered him, he asked more forcefully, "What about Hadvar!?"  

Ralof shifted uneasily.  "Last time I saw him was before I made it to the keep," he told the distressed man, eyes once more on the ground.  "I don't know anything more."  

"Mara have mercy!" the smith gasped, one hand in front of his mouth.  "Hilde was telling the truth, that old windbag."  

"Alvor," Gerdur interrupted   "More people will die if that beast comes back.  We need to do something about it.  I call for a Council meeting first thing in the morning.  Just you, me, Delphine, Ralof and Wulf here.  They lived through the attack."  

The smith nodded, but did not thank them for the news of what could be the death of a loved one.  Hadvar was the soldier reading the list, Wulf remembered.  Plain of face with brown hair and a soft voice; he did not recall much else of the man.  

They bade the smith goodnight and after a brief visit to the Sleeping Giant Inn and its owner, a blonde Breton woman in her early fifties, they settled for the night soon after returning to the cottage.  The house had only one spare bed on which Wulf and Ralof bunked together.  It was somewhat cramped, but Wulf didn't mind, not after the events of the last days.  He found the shared warmth and the solid weight of another body pressed against his quite comforting.  That he was attracted to Ralof probably helped.  Right now the other man had an arm slung across his chest; his breath tickled the nape of Wulf's neck and he snored lightly in his sleep. 

For a while Wulfryk just lay there, his eyes open and staring into the dark, as he listened to somebody toss and turn in the other bed and to the creaking of the house as it settled for the night.  Eight months ago he had set out and this was the first time since he had left his home that he could rest in a proper bed.  He wondered what else the future held in store for him, which was not something he was prone to do. Wulf usually lived for the moment.  When at last he closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him, his rest was deep and untroubled, as it had not been since he had set foot in Skyrim. 

 

xxxx

 

In the morning, before the village had yet awoken there was already a stir.  Ralof had been about to enter the Sleeping Giant when a rider appeared on the road to Helgen; only a small speck on the horizon at first, he quickly drew near at a brisk canter.  The Stormcloak stood with his arms crossed in the middle of the road and stared into the distance until he recognized the figure.  There was a cut across the bridge of his obviously broken nose and both his eyes were bloodshot, cheeks puffy and swollen.  Hadvar reined in sharply in front of the blond warrior and scowled.  

Wulf had just appeared around the bend and hurried to support his friend if he needed it.  He arrived in time to hear the Legionnaire call out "Ralof, you damned traitor!  Get out of my way!" in a voice thick with exhaustion and breathless from the ride.  

"Careful, Hadvar," Ralof warned, and grabbed the horse's reins with one hand when the other man kicked his mount even as the other wandered to the axe at his side.  "This is Whiterun, not Falkreath.  A man might take offence at such an accusation."  

Hadvar drew his sword, but before either of them could do anything rash or Wulf could think of a way to intervene, the doors to Alvor's house burst open and the smith strode out.  "Hadvar!" the brawny man called out in a booming voice.  He practically pulled the man out of the saddle by his collar and slapped his blade down with a careless "Oh, put that away!"  

The Nord Legionnaire looked decidedly uncomfortable being crushed in Alvor's hug, arms pinned to his side and sword uselessly trapped somewhere between.  When his uncle breathed "Thank the Nine, you are alive," he did not point out his uncle's slip-up, sucking in air through his broken nose instead.  

"Sigrid stayed up the whole night and prayed for your safety," the smith murmured into his nephew's hair.

Wulf turned away from the scene when Gerdur arrived.  If she was surprised to see the other Nord she did not show it, pointing to the inn instead.  "Ralof, take that horse to the stables."  

Her brother did so, sulking all the way, and Wulf thought that the drama of this backwater village was absolutely endearing.  He found his friend at one of the tables closest to the bar.  Delphine was already up and busy sweeping the floor and the others soon joined them.  The innkeeper put a steaming bowl in front of Hadvar, who had taken a seat opposite Wulf and dug into his food like he had not eaten since Helgen.  Maybe he had not.  

Delphine cast a look around the inn, but it was mostly empty except for Embry, the local drunk, who was slumped over a table at the back of the inn and snoring thunderously.  "Alright," she began.  "What is this talk of dragons?"  

Ralof and Hadvar filled her in on what had happened and then an animated discussion began about what they should do.  One point that Alvor, Gerdur and Delphine agreed upon immediately was that the Jarl of Whiterun had to be informed as quickly as possible.  

During their talk, Orgnar, the inn's cook, came in and began to set up a breakfast buffet, the smell of which made several stomachs grumble.  

"We have to tell Balgruuf," Gerdur finally stated when the man had departed again and they had filled their plates.  The others nodded.  "He can send us reinforcements."  

"We cannot fight the – dragons," Hadvar argued, and his already rough voice caught at 'dragons'.  "You did not see what _one_ of them did to Helgen."  

"Maybe not fight it, but devise an escape plan," Gerdur said while Delphine nodded.  "Double the watch, or build cellars where we can hide.  We have to do _something_ , we cannot just sit around and wait for the dragon to find us.  We will start with storing a part of our supplies underground."  

"What if it burns down our homes?" Alvor enquired with evident unease.  

"Then we will at least be alive," Gerdur argued stubbornly.  "Houses can be rebuilt."  

"Gerdur is right," the innkeeper fell in with the Nord woman.  

Alvor let the matter rest for now seeing as he could not win with the two wilful women and looked at his nephew.  "Hadvar, will you go?"

The Legionnaire fiddled with his spoon and replied unhappily, "I was planning to take the South Road through Rorikstead and Dragon Bridge.  Balgruuf has not yet declared for a side.  I am not sure it would be wise if I did go."  

"I could go," Wulf offered after swallowing the food he was chewing on.  He had ties to neither side of the civil war, a city was the perfect place to find employment, and it was the least he could do in return for the hospitality he had received. 

Gerdur smiled and nodded, clearly believing it to be a good idea as well.  "If you could do this for us, Wulfryk, I would be grateful." She then told him all he needed to know about the Jarl and how to find the city of Whiterun.

"Balgruuf the Greater."  Wulf nodded his understanding when a thought struck him.  "Is there a Balgruuf the Lesser I could confuse him with?"  

The looks he got from everybody were disbelieving at best.  He had already agreed to deliver the message to Whiterun, so they did not comment further on it.  

For one moment Delphine looked like she wanted to bang her – or possibly his – forehead against the table.  Then she turned away to address Gerdur.  "Did you hear?  There was a break-in at Lucan's shop.  The relic from the barrow was the only thing to go missing, I'm worried it might be the..."

Wulf was glad that her attention was on somebody else.  Something about the innkeeper unnerved him. He did not catch the rest of the sentence, his attention drawn to the two warriors, the one at his side and the other opposite him.  Ralof and Hadvar were glaring at each other sullenly even as their families traded news and gossip.  

"What's with you two, eh?" Wulf asked with feigned humour.  "That was quite a scene out there."  

"We grew up together," Ralof grunted, staring pointedly in the other direction.  

The brunet ignored him and extended a hand, and although he was surprised at the gesture, Wulf shook it.  "Hadvar of Riverwood."  

"Wulf of Nowhere, and Elsewhere, in particular," Wulfryk replied with a grin.  "I'm not sure I like you," he next told the Legionnaire with a smile that wasn't exactly unfriendly.  The last time he had seen him, he had flipped the Nord off in the rudest manner he could think of on the spot. Considering that it was in the middle of the dragon attack he was rather proud of what he had come up with.

Ralof guffawed and Hadvar obviously did not know what to make of the introduction and ran his hands over his face and rubbed at an eye that was red and swollen.  "I know this wasn't the best introduction to the Legion," the soldier sighed, "but I hope you'll give us another chance."  

Ralof did not give the other man the opportunity to endear the Legion to his friend.  "You saw the true face of the Empire that day," he argued heatedly.  "Executing travellers they picked up at random."  

"I'm sorry about your execution," Hadvar talked right over him to Wulf, who wasn't sure what to make of this bizarre conversation.  

"I'm sorry your captain was a bitch," he returned the sentiment.  

The Legionnaire immediately picked up on the meaning and frowned at the blond Nord next to Wulf.  "Was?"  

"What!?" Ralof countered belligerently.  "Cheer up.  With her gone maybe you'll get a promotion."  

"You're an idiot, Ralof," Hadvar muttered, shaking his head, and Wulf laughed as his friend's face turned red from embarrassment.  "How did you end up with the rebels, anyway?" the Legionnaire asked tiredly, chin propped up in one hand.  

"Remember Hjorti?" Ralof asked, leaning forward, serious all of a sudden, his earlier ire forgotten.  

Hadvar's brows furrowed.  "Your cousin?" he said slowly and nodded.  "Yes."  

"She disappeared one night without a trace.  They say the Thalmor grabbed her.  The Imperial army would not help.  It wasn't long before I found myself under Ulfric's banner.  I'm a true Nord.  It's as simple as that.  Of course you were already gone then.   _Joining the Legion_."  

"My father was a Legionnaire," Hadvar said calmly, "and his before him.  I guess I never considered doing anything else."  He was not backing down; there was no apology in his voice.  

Ralof grunted and tore at a loaf of bread, popping a chunk in his mouth.  "How did you escape?" he asked when eating could no longer keep the silence from becoming uncomfortable.  "The elves sealed the gates shut."  

Hadvar finished eating, put down his spoon and pushed the empty bowl away before replying.  "Ulfric Shouted them apart.  I – I never saw anything like it.  Those were three inches of solid oak reinforced with steel and they blew apart like, like..."  He made a gesture in the air, opening his fingers before he let his hands fall down atop the table.  "One of his men gave me this." Hadvar pointed at his purple, swollen face, and continued quietly.  "But he let me go.  Gave me a horse and told me to ride hard for Solitude and tell everything to Rikke if Tullius—"  He did not finish the sentence.  

"What of Tullius?" Ralof prodded.  

Hadvar shrugged.

The blond warrior smirked.  "Did your general run away?" he taunted.  "Jarl Ulfric is an honourable man," he then stated with pride.  "You saw his strength.  The elves will not stand a chance against him!"  

"Makes me wonder why he Shouted Torygg to pieces," Hadvar bit back cynically.  He quickly raised his hands when the blond jumped up, hands braced on the table and knuckles white.  "I'm not saying he isn't without his principles and I wasn't there the day they fought.  But the Empire is our only way to prevail.  That I know.  Any strife only serves to strengthen our enemies."  

"Who's Torygg?" Wulf threw in, the first time he had spoken up, not wanting to interrupt the two men because their interaction was as fascinating as their story was saddening.  But it seemed like things were getting heated now and Hadvar's nose did not look like it could withstand any more abuse.  He remembered Tullius addressing the Jarl about something, but frankly, he had not been listening.  

Ralof grudgingly sat back down again.  "He was the High King," the Stormcloak explained for his friend.  "Until Jarl Ulfric defeated him in a duel."  

"Some say murdered," Hadvar supplied, expression hidden behind his mug.  

Ralof shot him a filthy glare, but after a while, so quietly they were barely able to pick it up, he asked, "Do you believe in what they say about the dragons?"  

"About the harbingers of the end times?" the brunet whispered back.  "I don't know."  

Ralof pushed away his still half-full plate, having lost his appetite all of a sudden.  

"It makes me think," the Legionnaire began again a moment later.  "Maybe we should call a truce and..."

"Join forces just for a little while and take care of this dragon business?" Ralof supplied, and for once he looked thoughtful rather than angry or offended.  

Hadvar nodded.  "If they're really coming back then we have a bigger problem than who has a right to the throne, maybe even a bigger one than the Dominion.  I don't think the dragons distinguish between Men and Mer, Stormcloaks or Imperials."  

Ralof shifted nervously in his seat.  "Unless the damned elves have something to do with it," he grumbled.  There was truth in his erstwhile friend's words, though.  The dragon had burned all soldiers alike.  "I will suggest it to Jarl Ulfric," he decided.  

"And I to Legate Rikke."  

"Hey, maybe the Dragonborn will descend from the heavens and save us the bother of killing the lizards," Ralof joked, and the brunet chuckled without much mirth.  There was something unreadable in his gaze when he looked up again, a faraway expression of regret.  

"Ever miss being home?" Hadvar asked softly.  

Relof sent his mug spinning before thickly replying.  "Yeah."  

"Peace?"  

"Peace."  

They clasped hands, Stormcloak and Legionnaire, and there were the faintest traces of a smile on both warriors' faces.  

It was early, barely two hours after sunrise, but... "I'll drink to that," Wulf said, and raised his mug in a toast. 


	4. BTS

After a hearty breakfast at the inn and fond farewells Wulf saddled his horse, mounted up and rode for Whiterun. Gerdur had given him money for the journey and he spent most of it upon acquiring a bow, a quiver and arrows. It was a fine weapon made from walnut: short, powerful and curved in the Imperial fashion. Wulfryk felt almost giddy; he was in Skyrim, he was no longer about to be executed or on the run. To the contrary, he had a mission and he was headed for a big city where he was sure to find employment. Things were finally looking up.

From Riverwood it was a three day ride to Whiterum. On the first day Wulf left behind the dense forests and on the second he passed through rolling hills, until he finally arrived at the tundra. At a certain point the now sparse trees ended and before him a never-ending grassland stretched out. There was the occasional shrub, but other than that the landscape consisted of rocks and high grass that was yellow after winter. There were flowers, however, in every colour, shape and size. The cacophony of colours brought life and joy to an otherwise bleak landscape. The air hummed with insects; butterflies, bees and horseflies that had Wulf's horse swishing its tail without pause.

In the distance on a rocky outcrop Wulf could make out the outline of the city of Whiterun and behind it a mountain rage. Those were some huge mountains, the tallest Wulf had ever seen and in his travels across all of Tamriel he had seen quite a lot. He took his sweet time admiring the scenery until a loud roar to his left made him look around wildly and his horse nicker and prance nervously. Whatever had made that sound, it must have been angry. And _big_. There was another roar and this time it was answered with screams. Human screams.

'Just ride away,' Wulf thought. 'Whoever is there, they'll have to manage on their own.'

Damn it! He wheeled his horse around, turning it towards the direction from which the sounds came and kicked his mount into a full gallop. He dashed through a small copse of trees and down into a hollow, jumping from the horse's back as soon as he reached his destination. Wulf grabbed his bow, which he kept strung and slung over his shoulder, and faced his enemy.

Wulf's horse didn't wait around, but buckled a few times, kicking the air before it made off quickly. Wulf did not blame the animal. It probably had more brains than he did.

There, going up against a... a... _giant_ were three apparently suicidal warriors. And they were in trouble. One was down and the only thing keeping the giant from crushing her was a man who wielded a greatsword and even now it was evident he would not be able to keep his adversary on the defence for long. Without thinking, Wulf nocked an arrow, drew his bow and let fly. His purchase proved its worth when the giant let out a bellow of pain. He fired two more arrows, one of which missed its mark, but the second hit true. Suddenly the giant looked directly at Wulfryk. It had figured out who was responsible for hurting it. Then, it charged.

 _Shit_. That had not been part of the plan.

Wulf dropped his bow and drew his sword. His shield was still strapped to the saddle, not that it would do much good against this foe; probably it would only slow him down. Speaking of which, it was high time for him to get the hell out of that monster's path. Wulf got his ass in motion and, changing direction often to avoid being hit by the great club, he scampered for the other fighters. Alone, he stood no chance, but together, well together their chances were still shitty. At least the woman was up again, while another one had a bow, but not many arrows left. The fight that followed involved a lot of darting around, charging in whenever the giant turned another way and getting out of its reach quickly. It was the big warrior's sword that brought the giant down, cutting through the sinews in its feet and felling it like a tree. At once, they were all upon it, hacking, slashing and stabbing until, finally, their enemy lay still.

Wulf was panting, covered in sweat and blood and Holy Divines, did he need to sit down. For that purpose he chose the closest surface: the dead giant. One of the women lay down in the grass and her comrades were both bent over, gulping air. For a while their harsh breathing was the only sound that broke the silence. Then, the tall warrior righted himself, cleaned his blade of blood and first checked on his friends, before walking up to Wulfryk, who craned his neck up in order to be able to see the man's face.

He was the biggest man Wulf had ever seen; then again everything seemed to be oversized in Skyrim. The warrior had dark hair and stubble and he wore black war paint that made his blue-grey eyes look all the more piercing. To say he cut an impressive figure would be an understatement.

"Well met, kinsman," tall, dark and handsome spoke. "You are strong. You should visit us in Jorrvaskr." Wherever that was, but Wulf was happy to just listen to that deep, gravelly voice.

The red haired archer joined them. She too had her face painted. "Farkas speaks true. You fight well. You would make for a decent shield-sibling."

"Shield-sibling?" Wulf was not entirely sure he had heard right.

She grinned at him "An outsider, eh? Never heard of the Companions?"

The answer lay in Wulf's blank gaze, though he shook his head anyway.

"An order of warriors," she explained. "We are brothers and sisters in honour. And we show up to solve problems if the coin is good enough."

"Like the Fighter's Guild?" Wulf asked.

The second woman was Imperial and knew whom he spoke of.  She answered him this time "Yes, although _we_ are the real thing."

Well, that sounded interesting. Wulfryk had been looking for work anyway and here was the perfect opportunity. "So, can I join?" he enquired, addressing his question to the archer, who appeared to be in charge of the group.

"That's not for me to say. You'll have to talk to Kodlak Whitemane up in Jorrvaskr," she replied.

That's what he was going to do, Wulf decided. He too wiped his blade clean and sheathed it and then he picked up his bow, checking it for damage from when he had dropped it. The next quarter of an hour Wulf and Aela – that turned out to be the leader's name – spent cutting arrows from the dead giant, while Farkas filled him in on everything he knew about the creatures.

Together, the four of them set out towards Whiterun. Ria, the second woman, happily answered all of Wulf's questions concerning the city and the Companions.

Fortunately, his horse had not run far and Wulf considered himself to be truly lucky when he found the beast grazing some two miles away from where it had bolted. He studied it for a moment and decided to ride ahead. After all, the sooner Jarl Balgruuf got news of the dragon, the better.

"I have some urgent business in Whiterun. I hope we will see each other soon, in Jorrvaskr," he spoke to his fellow travellers, hoping they would understand that he was not too squeamish to walk with them. It seemed they did and the three Companions waved goodbye.

 

xxxx

 

Not even if he rode hard, would Wulf be able to reach Whiterun today, but thankfully there were farms on the city's outskirts and the owners housed him and his horse for the night. Wulf reimbursed them with a generous amount of gold for their kindness and in the morning he was surprised to find his clothes clean, if still slightly damp. He arrived in Whiterun within two hours. Now, the city was something to behold. The buildings were mostly made of wood with a stone base and the streets were broad and many were paved. Whiterun consisted of three districts, distinguishable by their height and it had several streams running through it. At the very top Dragonsreach stood, a fortress built in the style of the famous Nord longhouses, and home of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.

Wulf had to state his business at its gates and once more inside, but the Jarl agreed to see him almost as soon as he got word of his arrival. What followed was a torrent of questions about the events in Helgen. Wulfryk stuck to the truth, mostly, because the Jarl was not interested in Imperials or Stormcloaks, but in the safekeeping of his subjects. He ended up sending a contingent of soldiers to Riverwood and talking Wulf into accepting a dangerous mission from a crazy wizard, because Wulf's common sense flew right out of the window when he heard the sum of the reward that was being dangled in front of him.

Using the mage's own words, _he was to delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may – or may not – be actually there._

The tablet was called a dragonstone and Wulf had no idea what it did, except that it might help them understand the dragons. Or... something like that. The wizard was interested in it, as was the Jarl, and that was all he needed to know.

Wulf regretted his decision as soon as he heard the details of the assignment. Then again, Balgruuf could have ordered him to retrieve it anytime, the man was a Jarl. For his troubles of delivering news of the attack on Helgen Wulf got a small pouch full of gold and a warm meal. He would leave on the morrow, but today was not over yet.

 oooo

So he decided to do what he had promised to, namely to visit Jorrvaskr. As Ria had told him, the mead hall of the Companions was the oldest building in Whiterun. A long time ago it had stood by itself upon the hill, but in time a town and later a city had sprung up around it. It certainly was a remarkable building, shaped in the form of an upturned longboat, which it once had been.

Wulf entered through a massive door and he was glad to catch sight of a familiar face at once. The three Companions must have returned recently, because he noticed that Aela's boots were still caked in mud. The warrior was sitting with a mug of something that was most likely mead and when she saw him as well, she waved him over. Just then a commotion started and somebody shouted "A fight!"

Aela just rolled her eyes, muttering "They're at it – again."

Wulf watched the contestants, a male Dunmer and a Nord woman, go at each other. "Erm... five Septims on the maiden?" he suggested.

Aela snorted "We don't take bets on our shield-siblings, but... good choice. Athis does not stand a chance against Njada." She then pointed towards some stairs. "You're probably here to see Kodlak. Just go down these stairs, turn right and keep straight ahead. His room is at the end of the corridor."

"Thanks."

She nodded, but did not tear her eyes away from the brawl. Wulf did as she had told him. He found the room in question easily, but it was already occupied. Two men sat at the table, engrossed in their conversation. Wulfryk had no difficulties guessing which one was Kodlak Whitemane. The name really was a tip-off.

A snippet of their talk reached Wulf's ears.

"But I still hear the call of the blood." That was the other man speaking.

Uh, that sounded private. And interesting. It was none of his business, though. He would turn around and walk away. Come back at a later time. _Damn it!_ Wulf cursed inwardly when had his feet carried him to the door. He leaned against the frame, not hiding, but neither was he in plain sight. The men did not notice his arrival at first.

"We all do. It is our burden to bear, but we can overcome it," Kodlak answered.

"You have my brother and I, obviously. But I don't know if the rest will go along quite so easily." The man could only mean Farkas. The resemblance was so stark, that if not for their different voices, Wulf would be wondering when Farkas had found the time to cut his hair. Lovely, that this much gorgeous came as twins. Wulf bit down hard on his lip, to keep from grinning.

"Leave that to me."

"A stranger comes to our hall." Farkas' brother's eyes fixed on Wulf. They were the same colour as his twins, maybe paler, but they too were circled in black paint. The old man turned to regard the newcomer as well.

"I would like to join the Companions," Wulf spoke up.

"Would you now?" Despite his age, Kodlak's voice was strong. "Here, let me have a look at you." He beckoned the man to come closer. "Those eyes aren't what they used to be."

Wulf stepped forward and let the man inspect him, appraising the old warrior in turn.

Kodlak practically did a double take as the beheld the man that stepped into the circle of light. It was _him_! He recovered quickly and tried to cover up for his lapse. "Yes, I see - a certain strength of spirit."

His shock had not been lost on Vilkas. "Master, you are not truly considering accepting him?"

Kodlak shook his head and gently reprimanded the other Companion "I am nobody's master, Vilkas." He could already sense trouble brewing when he saw Vilkas' unhappy frown." And last I checked we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts."

"Apologies." The word sounded rather strained. "But perhaps this isn't the time. I've never even heard of this outsider.” Vilkas, gave the newcomer an once-over, letting him know what he thought of him, which wasn't much. He had black hair that reached past his shoulders, a neat beard that was just long enough it could no longer be called stubble, cold blue eyes of a stunning intensity and Nord features, but surprisingly dark skin. A half-blooded mongrel most likely. Vilkas snorted. Dogs did not belong with wolves.

Wulfryk, son of a drunk outcast, surname unknown as of yet; also known as Brynjolf of Dawnstar, a wanted criminal and alleged Stormcloak supporter. Caravan guard, lifelong vagabond, master opportunist and occasional petty thief. It wasn't much of a résumé, Wulf had to admit.

Still, the burning resentment in the other man's gaze was unexpected and it made him weary. It was as if Vilkas had seen right through him. The scowl on his face said as much as he stared at Wulf, unblinking. A heavy, uncomfortable silence settled over the little gathering. Tension hung in the air, so thick one could almost slice it with a knife. Wulf dipped his head and let a smile slowly spread over his face. It was as friendly an expression as a dog baring its teeth and he saw Vilkas' hand involuntarily twitching for his blade. Good. He wasn't the only one on guard, then.

Kodlak did his best to set things right, but he seemed oblivious to the depth of what was going on right in front of him. "Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart."

"And their arm," Vilkas supplied, still trying to intimidate Wulf by glaring him down.

Wulf's grin turned a bit broader which annoyed the other man no end. "Good news, then," he drawled. "I've got two."

Kodlak blinked in surprise and he let out an amused cough. "Of course." From the other side of the table Vilkas growled. Nonetheless, Kodlak continued "How are you in battle, boy?"

"I can handle myself," Wulf replied softly. He had not been a boy for ten-and-nine years, and he was not boasting. Those that had believed otherwise could have testified to his abilities, were they not pushing up daisies.

"That may be so." Kodlak did some quick thinking. What he decided to do next could turn out to be a huge disaster, but the newcomer _had_ to become a Companion. Kodlak had seen it happen. It might sound crazy to anybody else, but the old man knew that the gods must have finally answered his prayers. He took the plunge "This is Vilkas. He will test your arm. Vilkas, take him out to the yard and see what he can do."

"Aye," Vilkas ground out. He could not tell what bothered him about the other man so much. Maybe it was that cocky grin which caused his hackles to rise. Other than that, he did not like the newcomer's manner. It was... too smooth. Practiced. And he smelled wrong. The beast inside him and Vilkas might be at odds most of the time, but he had learned to trust the wolf's instincts. Something was not right with that guy and Vilkas would be glad to toss his ass out of Jorrvaskr personally.

He stood, picked up his sword, and without a backwards glance he left for the training ground. His stride was tense, for he did not like turning his back on the other man, but he would not let his unease show.

Wulf remained unmoving for a couple of seconds, before shrugging and catching up to Vilkas. "Hello, I'm Wulfryk," he tried cheerfully.

"I don't care. The old man said to have a look at you, so let's do this." If that whelp knew how hard Vilkas was trying to retain self-control, he would not be as smug. Vilkas would not succumb to the beast, however. He would not let it loose and wreak havoc, unless it was absolutely a matter of life and death. It did not mean that he did not want to. Especially since the whelp would not shut up.

"My, these warm, heartfelt greetings must be a Nord thing." Wulf's sarcasm was not lost on Vilkas. It annoyed the big warrior and that's why Wulfryk kept it up. If he had to fight the man, he wanted him to be riled up. Angry people were careless and they made mistakes. He probed further.  "Say, you wouldn't have a dragon cooped up here somewhere, would you? I haven't been set on fire for way too long."

"What?" Vilkas did not want to let himself be baited into an argument, but he could not help that question escaping.

His answer, however, encouraged the whelp to go on. He cleared his throat and in a deep voice, no doubt an imitation of Vilkas' he said "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Then, answering his own words, he continued " _No, the pleasure is entirely on my side_."

"You seem to be a capable warrior, the Companions welcome you."

" _Why, thank you. I have heard so much about you already. Joining all those brave souls has always been a dream of mine._ "

They arrived at the door and Wulf still kept up his monologue of small talk.

Vilkas' patience was at an end. "Will you -," he began, but did not get much further.

"No," Wulf interrupted him quickly, holding his hands out and silencing him. "Don't say anything. You'll just ruin it, now that I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy inside."

Before he knew he had moved, Vilkas had the whelp by his collar and pressed him brutally against the wall. There was a flash of surprise on Wulf's face and Vilkas had the satisfaction of towering over him. His greater height was an advantage he felt no remorse playing out to its full extent. Vilkas leaned in, dangerously so, until their noses almost touched. He was intimidating and he knew it.

In a calm tone he said "I don't like you, whelp. Whatever you're hiding, you're not very good at it." He dug his fingers in the other man's shoulders to make his point clear. Vilkas had the pleasure when Wulf winced with pain and continued "You walk out now, and I'll let you go. You stay- ," Vilkas put more force in his grip and let his voice drop until it was barely audible, "–And I'll make sure you won't walk out again." He could smell the sweat on the other man and it held the anticipation of a fight, but little fear, which angered Vilkas enough he wanted to underline his words by slamming Wulf against the wall.

Before he could do so, however, Vilkas was brought up short by the loud cluck of a tongue. "Now, the two of you, take it to a room!" a voice said sharply.

Caught by Tilma. The old woman had been like a mother to him and Farkas. Knowing how they must have looked like, pressed up against the wall, Vilkas felt himself blush furiously. He let go of the whelp like he had been burned and stormed through the door, wanting nothing more but to get away. Wulf barked out a cruel laugh. It followed Vilkas up the stairs and out, into the training ring.

With the other man gone and the old lady glaring daggers at him, Wulf feigned an innocent smile and hid his hands behind his back, where he slid his stolen knife back in its sheath. Vilkas had never even seen the blade.

Vilkas stomping out of Jorrvaskr in a foul mood and Wulf following a moment after attracted some attention. People gathered in the courtyard and somebody shouted "Look here, everyone. Fresh meat." Amongst the onlookers Wulf recognised some faces, Aela and Ria being two of them, but of Farkas there was no sign.

Vilkas took up position in the ring and drew his blade. It was not lost on Wulf that this was no training weapon. He expected to be told to pick up a blunted weapon himself, but when no such request came, Wulf readied his own sword and shield. The two combatants began to circle each other slowly. Vilkas' warning still rang loudly in Wulf's mind. He could not allow the bigger man to get a hit on him. Even armed with a shield, a blow from that great weapon might well break his arm. It was a good thing he had an ace up his sleeve, but it was not one he was planning to use unless it was absolutely necessary. He had long ago blended out the excited cries and shouts of the crowd. When he fought, everything around Wulf but his adversary ceased to be.

Without warning, Vilkas attacked. For a man of his size he moved with surprising speed, stabbing his sword at Wulf's face and when his opponent slapped the point away, he followed it up with a wide, overhand swing. Wulf did not bother to block, dancing out of the weapon's path instead. He dodged and turned, parried and slashed, but try as he might, he could not gain the upper hand.

A two handed weapon had its drawbacks, however, and they became obvious as their fight dragged on. Its weight meant it was powerful, but also slow and heavy. Vilkas lacked both the strength and endurance to swing the blade as effortlessly as his brother. When he saw the big warrior tiring, Wulf switched to a more offensive combat style, wearing Vilkas out and slowly hacking away at the other man's defences. So far, Vilkas' greater reach gave him the advantage and he kept Wulf at a distance.

Suddenly though, Wulfryk saw his chance. Around him everything had grown quiet, save for the two men's panting breaths and the ring of steel. The people gathered to watch held their breath in anticipation. Wulf had just pushed at Vilkas with his shield, driving his adversary into a defensive stance. Vilkas held his sword horizontally, ready to catch an incoming blow, but not to strike out himself. There was only one way to deal with somebody wielding such a great weapon, Wulf knew. The trick was to get close enough, so that the opponent's weapon would be rendered useless. And now, Wulf had Vilkas exactly where he wanted him to be. Quick as an adder, Wulfryk struck.

Vilkas' eyes grew wide when Wulf stepped right into his space and the other man's hand closed on the ricasso of his sword. Vilkas had a fraction of a heartbeat to realize the mistake he had made. With both hands closed around the hilt of his sword, he had no way to get rid of his challenger. Then, an elbow collided with his face.

With the element of surprise on his side, Wulf stunned his adversary. He stepped sideways, past Vilkas, and hooked one leg around the big Nord's legs, pushing him over. He followed the attack up by a hard bash with his shield to Vilkas' temple to make sure the man would stay down. Stunned, Vilkas dropped his sword. It allowed him to use his hands to break the fall, but nonetheless he collided with the stone floor rather painfully.

Vilkas tried to get up, but he was stopped by the point of a sword held to his throat. "You're dead," the man standing above him said. It took a while for the words to sink in. Blinking blood out of his eyes, it slowly downed on him that he had lost. Vilkas had lost to the cocky whelp.

"You did not fight honourably," he bit back, in an attempt to save the last shreds of his honour. Wulf had removed his sword and stepped aside to give Vilkas room to get up, which he did, albeit he was slightly wobbly on his feet. Their fight had lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity had passed.

"That makes you a very honourable corpse." Wulfryk's words rang through the silence.

Vilkas looked around and saw that all eyes were fixed on them. A collective gasp had gone up when Wulf had made his move, but now one would be able to hear a pin drop. To borrow time and collect himself, Vilkas picked up his sword and rubbed a sleeve across his face. The shield had ripped a shallow gash across his right temple, but apart from a threatening headache and a possible light concussion, Vilkas was unharmed. Wulf had pulled his blow, obviously. Otherwise, he would not be standing anytime soon.

"Congratulations," Vilkas ground out, mostly for the onlookers' sake. "You passed the first test." The words were bitter on his tongue and he had to pull himself together in order not to spit at Wulf's feet. Instead, he decided to send the man away. And to remind him who was in charge around here. "You're still just a whelp to us, Newblood. So you do what we tell you. Here's my sword. Take it up to Eorlund to have it sharpened. And be careful with it, it's probably worth more than you are!" With those words Vilkas stalked away. He urgently needed some time alone, to cool down. Should he lose control, the consequences would be beyond grave and today he had come too close far too many times.

"Right away, shield-brother Grumpy," Wulf muttered at the warrior's retreating back.

He did take the sword to Eorlund though and on his way back, he met Aela. There was a man at her side, but he offered neither greeting nor a smile. Wulf had seen him amongst the onlookers, but the man's name was unknown to him. Aela grinned up at Wulf, complimenting him on a good fight and cheerfully adding "Don't mind Vilkas. He's a sore loser."

It was a good thing she did not know about what had transpired below Jorrvaskr. Speaking of the devil, just then a huge figure blocked out the light. Thankfully it was only Farkas.

"Have you seen my brother, Aela?" he asked.

She nodded her head. "He's off, sulking. The Newod beat him in the training ring," she explained for the warrior who had missed Wulf's fight with his brother. Turning to Wulf, Aela added, "It's good to see you've madbloe it up here."

"You know this one?" Aela's companion spoke up, as if the topic of their conversation was not standing right in front of him. "I saw him training with Vilkas," he added with a contemplative frown. Apparently he had too much respect for his shield-brother to say that Wulf had wiped the floor with Vilkas' ass.

Aela nodded. "I do know him. He happened on us when Farkas, Ria and I were dealing with that pesky giant. Handled himself well then, too. And he gave Vilkas quite a thrashing."

"Don't let him catch you saying that." Skjor's tone was hard and he walked away without any parting words.

Aela was trying hard not to roll her eyes heavenwards. Her lover was suspicious at best. Instead, she turned her attention to the two remaining men. "Farkas."

"Did you call me?" the warrior in question asked, as if there was another who went by that name.

Aela lost the battle with herself then and rolled her eyes. "Of course I did, Icebrain," she said with a heavy sigh. Despite the show there was an obvious note of fondness in her voice. "Why don't you show our Newblood where he can sleep?"

Farkas nodded in agreement and, turning to Wulf, he told him, "I remember you. Come, follow me." Farkas walked slowly in the direction where the dormitory of the newer members of the Companions was. "Skjor and Aela like to tease, but they're good people. They challenge us to be our best. It's nice to have a new face around. It gets boring here sometimes. I hope we get to keep you. This can be a rough life." Realizing he had probably said a lot of stupid stuff, Farkas shut up.

When Wulf did not comment, he went on somewhat shyly, "My brother Vilkas is a better talker than me."

"I beg to differ." Wulf sounded bitter, but Farkas did not ask why. He knew his brother could be a little inapproachable at times.

As they walked, Farkas studied the warrior next to him. Wulf chose that very moment to yawn widely. Now that the excitement of the fight had worn off, he felt bone tired. He yawned once more and when his jaw creaked audibly, he cast Farkas a sheepish grin. The big warrior understood, and with a small chuckle he patted Wulf on the back. The gesture was well-meant, but it almost sent Wulf sprawling, and he stumbled when Farkas' giant paw pounded against his back.

They arrived at their destination and Farkas stopped in front of the door, making a vague motion with his hand that encompassed the room. "The quarters are up here. Just pick a bed and fall into it when you're tired. Tilma will keep the place clean. She always has."

Wulf just nodded in answer. There were free beds and that alone made the room look like heaven.

Farkas shuffled his feet nervously. He was not sure whether he was supposed to say something more. He liked the newcomer, but did not quite know how to behave around him. It was the same problem he had had with every new Companion, until they became one of them and things fell into place all by themselves. So he cleared his throat. "Alright, so here you are. Looks like the others are eager to meet you." Indeed there was a small commotion inside the room, as everyone there tried to catch a glimpse of the two men.

"Oh, and one more thing: come to me or Aela if you're looking for work. Once you've made a bit of a name for yourself, Skjor or Vilkas might have things for you to do." Farkas paused for a moment. He had covered all the important points, he thought. "Good luck. Welcome to the Companions."

Wulf's expression brightened immediately. Farkas' awkward words made him feel welcome in all the ways he had mocked Vilkas about. "Thank you, Farkas," he said sincerely. "Good night."

"'Night." The big warrior retreated and let Wulf get acquainted with the other Companions. And he still had his brother to find.

As soon as Wulfryk entered the room, he was swarmed by the others. Apparently Jorrvaskr really did not see many new faces. Ria looked like she was happy to see him again and Torvar and Athis both congratulated him upon passing the old man's inspection – and beating Vilkas in the training ring.

Njada was... something else. Her first words to him were "I'm still trying to figure out why they let you in in first place."

Wulf blinked, surprised at the amount of hostility she could show a complete stranger. It seemed Nords were experts at doing just that. "Kodlak thinks I am good enough," he replied. Tired, he did just what Farkas had suggested: he fell into one of the empty beds.

"I wouldn't have allowed you to join," Njada responded, stubbornly.

Wulf stretched out on his bed, crossing his arms behind his head and wishing her away. When it did not work and after twenty seconds she still stood there, glaring at him, he finally enquired "Are you Kodlak?"

"No." Njada furrowed her brows, wondering what he was getting at.

"Then why are you bothering me?" Wulfryk was tired. He had fought a real giant yesterday and a human one today and tomorrow he would be on the road again, something he loved, but at times the discomforts got to even him.

"Seriously, you need to work on your people skills. With the welcome I got it's a wonder the Empire ever bothered to invade," he muttered.

Njada obviously did not know what to make of him. "You dare insult me?" she cried and her voice rose in anger. "I am Njada Stonearm!"

"Keep it up and you'll be forever known as Njada Wallface," Wulf warned her softly.

"Hah, take that, bitch!" Athis yelled. It did the trick of distracting her and she left, starting another heated argument with the Dunmer.

Wulf closed his eyes. He was warm, his belly was full and he had a roof over his head. All things considered, he was a lot better off than he had been when he had set out on this mad journey.

And tomorrow? He would deal with it when it arrived.


	5. BTS

Bright and early Wulf found himself on the road again, riding back towards the village he had just come from.  By his standards it meant that he set out before midday, after breakfast and telling Kodlak about his mission from the Jarl.  He thought it was something the old Harbinger should definitely know about. Thankfully, the journey to Riverwood remained pleasantly uneventful.  He arrived early on the fourth day, being in no hurry to begin his difficult and quite possibly dangerous mission.  Without anything better to do, Wulf once more steered his horse to Gerdur's home. 

He found Hod in front of the house, chopping wood, and Ralof who sat on the porch bent over a huge pot, sleeves and trousers rolled up while he peeled potatoes. 

The lumberjack saw Wulf first and he called out in greeting.  "Wulf!  We did not expect to see you so soon."  For one moment worry clouded the Nord's expression.  "Did everything go well?" 

Ralof's head jerked up when he heard his friend's name accompanied by a clatter of hooves.  A huge grin spread over his face. 

Wulf smiled as he dismounted.  "It did," he said to put the man at ease.  "The Jarl has heard our cause and his soldiers should arrive here soon." 

Hod breathed a loud sigh of relief, nodded his head and went back to work.  Ralof on the other hand dropped his knife and wiped his hands on his trousers, before he walked up to Wulf and pulled him into a brief but warm hug.  He was not wearing any shoes, Wulf noticed.  The blond Nord threw an arm across his friend's shoulders and steered him into the house, where he poured his guest a cup of an infusion made from lemon balm and honey.  Wulf accepted the cold drink gratefully.  The days have been getting hotter and the cool liquid tasted delicious as it slid down his parched throat.  While he sipped he could see that Ralof was all but bouncing on his feet, obviously keen on sharing some news. 

"Something has you in a very good mood," Wulf stated, hiding his smile behind the mug. 

Ralof laughed out loud and seated himself at the table, next to Wulfryk.  "You could say that!" he began.  "Several Imperial troops passed through Riverwood, two days after you set out for Whiterun." 

Wulf's brows shot up.  Imperial troops shouldn't be good news to a Stormcloak soldier, so there was probably more to it. 

He did not have to wait long, as Ralof continued eagerly.  "They booked quarters at the inn.  Hod overheard them talk."  There was a gleeful sparkle in Ralof's eyes.  "They were complaining about how Tullius was going to have their hides for letting Ulfric slip through their fingers." 

So the Jarl and his men had managed to get away after their escape from Helgen.  Wulfryk had wondered what had happened to them.  Although he was not devoted to the Stormcloak cause like Ralof, he was glad the General's plans had been crossed nonetheless.  "Did any Stormcloaks come this way?" he asked. 

Ralof shook his head in negation.  "They must have turned around and taken the road over the mountains." 

"Will you be joining them?" Wulf wanted to know. 

"Soon, I will."  Ralof seemed excited at the prospect.  "Taking a break has been nice, but Ulfric will need good men before long.  However, if they really take the mountain passes it might take them quite a while to reach Windhelm.  I won't have to set out immediately."  Changing the topic, Ralof nudged Wulf with his elbow.  "And how did your meeting with the Jarl go?  Did you manage to call him a name to his face and are now on the run?" 

"Insult a Jarl?  Me?" Wulf asked incredulously.  "Never!" he spat vehemently.  His harsh tone was betrayed by his silly grin though.  "As I've told Hod, the meeting went well."  Wulfryk guessed that Ralof might be curious as to the reason why he had returned, although the other man had not asked him yet.  "I've come because of an assignment I was tasked with, as well as for reasons of my own.  Oh, and you are now talking to the newest member of the Companions," Wulf added proudly. 

"You are a Companion?"  Surprise and admiration coloured Ralof's voice.  He clapped Wulf's shoulder and started "How... ," but before he could finish, a piercing shout came from outside. 

"Ralof!  The potatoes won't peel themselves!" 

Ralof winced as he heard Gerdur's scream.  A moment later the woman herself entered the house. 

"Look who came to visit us, sister," Ralof spoke in a placating voice.  Wulfryk waved his hand in greeting. 

Gerdur gave their guest a scalding look and levelled her finger at Wulf's face.  "You!  You are nothing but trouble!" she declared in a huff. 

"Ermm... "  Wulf was not sure what he had done wrong this time.  Casting Gerdur a nervous glance he turned to Ralof and whispered "What is she talking about?"

Ralof could not hold back a chuckle.  "It's about Frodnar.  Remember what you told him when you were here?  Well, he's been running all around town, telling everybody how he 'molested' the village girls.  Gerdur had to call for a town's meeting to put the other parents' minds at ease.  Even now they probably think we are very weird at best." 

"Oh."  Wulf tried to look abashed, but he was fighting a losing battle with amusement.  "Why is it my fault your son's a brat?" he finally asked Gerdur sweetly. 

"You... !"  Gerdur grabbed the nearest object, which turned out to be a huge ladle, and slapped Wulfryk upside the head with it. 

"Ouch!" Wulf cried out and turned beseeching eyes on Ralof, who did nothing to help him out of his predicament.  "That's... domestic violence," Wulf finally stated in a pitiable voice, rubbing his sore head and the bruise he already felt forming. 

"It serves you right."  There was not a hint of regret in Gerdur's voice.  She took a seat at the table as well and in appeasement she refilled Wulf's empty mug.  Much calmer she asked him "What brings you back to Riverwood?"

Wulfryk took a deep breath.  "I am going to Helgen."  His statement was met with the silence and bewildered looks he had expected. 

"Why?" Ralof asked at last, disbelieving anyone would want to go back _there_. 

Wulf's simple explanation was "I have left a few things behind."

"Things of great value?" Ralof enquired further. 

"Only of a sentimental one," Wulf replied.  Seeing the sceptical look the siblings shared he pressed on "I am not going to risk my life trying to get them back," he assured the two Nords, "But I would feel bad if I did not try." 

Gerdur nodded her understanding and promptly asked, "Ralof, why don't you help Wulfryk?"

"What?!"  Ralof seemed to be as confused by Gerdur's sudden change of attitude as Wulf was. 

"You have been resting your behind on my doorstep for far too long," the woman answered resolutely.  "It has been good to see you again, Wulfryk.  Of course you are welcome to stay for the night."  Her tone had turned much kinder than when she had first caught sight of him. 

Wulf's head felt like it was spinning.  "Actually, I had hoped to cover some more ground today.  But I appreciate the offer, thank you." 

"As you wish."  Gerdur cast her brother a meaningful gaze.  "You'd better pack, or you'll be walking barefoot." 

Ralof made a show of grumbling unhappily, but the truth was he was already itching for some action.  This peaceful life of farming was nothing for him.  If Gerdur hadn't beaten him to it, he would have offered to go with Wulf himself.  He made quick work of washing up and afterwards he dressed and packed.  Last, he picked up his axe that had been sitting idly in a corner for too long.  He tested the edge.  If they were really going to Helgen, the blade might draw blood soon.  Imperial blood.  A grim smirk crossed Ralof's face and his eyes lit up at the prospect, especially now that Hadvar was gone and he knew he would not have to fight his childhood friend.  

"I wish I had my warhammer," Ralof sighed when he noticed Wulf's look.

"You have a smith here," the other Nord suggested.

"Yeah, I can't ask Alvor to make me a weapon to kill people like... ," the blond could not bring himself to say it out loud. The war had bothered him a lot less when it wasn't familiar faces on the other side.

"His nephew?" Wulf supplied and Ralof nodded.

"That's just wrong." He paused for a while. "I'm afraid there will be no peace, but I'm glad Hadvar is gone for now at least. I couldn't return home with his blood on my hands. He left a day after you."

Wulf did not comment but handed his friend his mare's reins with a wry smile of sympathy. Once more the two Nords set out, but this time they were riding towards danger, not fleeing it.  Much as Wulfryk was glad to be accompanied by Ralof, his horse was annoyed with the other man's mare.  The animals settled into their old routine of bickering that left their riders amused, but also slightly exasperated.  Still, together the journey passed a lot quicker and for once even the fair weather held. 

On the last night of their travel Wulf and Ralof camped inside a thick patch of trees that would render their campfire invisible to prying eyes, unless somebody was to crawl through the underbrush and then they would be able to hear it long before anybody would see them.  The last thing they wanted was to be caught by Imperials again.  The fire cracked merrily and two hares Wulf had shot were slowly roasting on spits.  The men were busy discussing plans for the morrow as they sat huddled together on their bedrolls.  Their ‘tent' consisted of a cover made from oiled leather they spanned overhead to keep off eventual rain.  In the distance, thunder rolled and the sky was lit up by sheet lightening. 

In the morning the ground was covered by a fresh sprinkling of dew and the sun was twinkling through the branches.  Wulfryk awoke as warm spots of light danced across his face.  He stretched, sat up and shook Ralof awake.  The blond Nord mumbled something intelligible and burrowed deeper under covers.  Still, by the time Wulf came back from relieving himself Ralof was up and groggily packing their belongings.  The cold leftovers from yesterday served as breakfast.  In silence the two men rode up to Helgen, until Ralof signed that they had gone far enough.  By then both of them had shaken off their morning sleepiness. 

They left their horses tethered out of the town's view and carefully, under the cover of trees, they approached Helgen.  Like bandits they squatted in the bushes observing the town's walls carefully.  Unlike the day when they had arrived by cart, they could make out no soldiers patrolling the battlements.  It was strange. After the dragon attack Wulf had expected the watch to be doubled.  No matter how much he strained his eyes though, he could not spot as much as a single helmet.  And it was too quiet.  The birds made a merry ruckus, but other than that there were no voices to be heard. Absent was the creaking wagons, the heavy tread of armoured men, and the neighing of horses. 

Slowly, as Ralof and Wulf made their round, they came to the main road and caught a glimpse of the northern gates.  They were unguarded as well.  That was certainly not normal.  Wulfryk handed his bow to Ralof.  "Cover me," he told the man tensely and left his hiding place.  As he walked up to the gates, Wulf expected a voice to call out anytime, but no outcry rang out.  He had not been able to see it from where he had been hidden, but the gates stood slightly ajar.  Wulf pressed himself against the woodwork and pried a wing further open, risking a glimpse at the courtyard that lay beyond.  It was empty. 

Ralof saw Wulfryk relaxing marginally.  His friend waved him to come and together they entered the town. 

"They have abandoned it," Ralof whispered. 

"Well, it's just ruins now," Wulf replied.  Why they were speaking so softly he could not tell, but somehow he felt the need to remain undetected. 

"That may be so, but the walls still stand strong," Ralof answered. 

The stillness that hung over Helgen made Wulf's skin crawl.  As he stepped from the shadows of the gate into the sunlight and cautiously walked across the deserted square, he thought he could feel invisible eyes tracking him.  Staring out from the blackened and crumbling ruins.  Ralof sensed it too and his grip on his axe grew tighter.  A slight breeze picked up and the wind howled ominously through the desolate streets.  Helgen was a town of ghosts now. 

Wulfryk stepped around the fallen structure of a house and what might have been the charred remains of a human corpse.  Now that he was here he would not let himself be scared off by what might just be his overactive imagination.  Instinct told him that he was not welcome here.  A certain hostility lingered over the place.  A watchfulness.  Wulf shuddered.  The faster they found what they had come for, the sooner they could leave. 

Navigating the streets was not easy.  They were strewn with rubble and wooden beams and some buildings had collapsed and blocked parts off entirely.  Fortunately, Ralof's orientation was much better than Wulf's, as his memory of the place was not limited to a single afternoon.  When they had captured the prisoners, the Imperials had taken their possessions and loaded them onto the carts.  They could have unloaded them at the inn, the barracks or the keep.  Then again, maybe they had not had the time to do so.  Wulf could not remember.  He had been too occupied by his impending execution to pay any notice to what was happening to his things. 

They searched for a good while, without success.  Wulf could see Ralof become increasingly bored.  He did not let his own frustration show, although disappointment cut through him like a blade.  Wulf should not have gotten his hopes up.  After all, what chances did he have at finding a single backpack amidst all those ruins and after the Imperials had had nearly three weeks to dispose of his belongings?  He called out to Ralof to let his friend know that he could end his search.  Despite their futile attempts, Ralof had not complained once and for that alone Wulfryk was grateful beyond measure. 

The Khajiit way of life had taught him not to get attached to worldly possessions, and what were a few lost things compared to getting away with his life and winning a friend? He crouched down and picked up a handful of dirt that he let slowly trickle through his hand.  Hopefully, Wulf would never have to return to Helgen.  The crunch of footsteps made him look up.  A pair of ravens took flight as Ralof approached, cackling loudly.  The birds had picked at the rotting cadaver of a horse. 

Wulfryk gazed at the dead animal.  It was still strapped to an overturned wagon.  By the looks of it, the stables had collapsed entirely.  Wulf's eyes suddenly lit up and his heartbeat picked up.  The wagons were buried beneath the debris!  And if nobody had bothered to clear it away, it meant that nobody had unloaded the carts, which meant that he had just found what he was looking for. 

"Ralof!" Wulf shouted excitedly.  "I found it!  Lend me a hand!"

They had to shift some of the rubble, careful not to let anything fall on top of them, until Wulf could slip underneath and crawl to the wagons.  He made quick work of sorting through the chests, until at long last his hands closed around the familiar patched leather of his backpack and his long-serving cuirass of leather and steel. 

Ralof heard his friend's cheerful laugh and a moment later Wulf clambered out from under what had been the stables.  He was dishevelled, stained with soot and his shirt had a tear at the side, but there was a bright smile on his face.  Wulf quickly opened the top flap of his backpack and started to sort through his belongings.  He tossed his clothes out messily, followed by cooking utensils and a few other things he did not care about. 

Ralof's eyes grew wide as he saw Wulfryk pull a huge volume out of his backpack and unwrap it.  What his friend was doing with the behemoth of a book, Ralof had no idea, but Wulf pressed the tome to his chest like one would a friend long lost. 

Wulfryk noticed Ralof staring at him and cleared his throat.  "I have been working on it for sixteen years," Wulf said slightly embarrassed.  The book was a record of his travels, of the places he had seen in his time abroad and of the people he had encountered.  Happy, Wulf wrapped it up in the oiled leathers that protected it from water.  Most of his treasured possessions were here.  He found his favourite fighting knife, a couple of tokens that served no purpose except as mementos, and the clay pot that contained his white war paint, a formula Wulf had once cheated a drunken merchant out of.  Ralof gave a soft whistle when he saw Wulf spread out a roll of lock picking tools.  His friend obviously had a shady past. 

"They were a parting gift," Wulfryk defended himself. 

"Whom from? The Thieves Guild?"

"No, just the Khajiit I lived with for a while."  Wulf guessed most people would fail to see any difference.  He did not care.  After putting everything away, Wulf buckled on his armour and shouldered his backpack, the weight a familiar burden.  "Let's get out of here," he said.  "I can't wait to leave this place behind once and for all."

Ralof nodded his agreement enthusiastically.  "Too many bad memories," he added quielty, and Wulf was not sure whether he was talking about recent events or something that had occurred a long time ago.  "So now that we have taken care of your own little quest, what was that assignment you mentioned?" Ralof enquired to distract himself. 

The Nords walked back to where they had left their horses and the rest of their equipment.  They had to split the contents of Wulf's pack between the two horses in order to be able to take everything with them.  Wulf did not answer for a time and when he did, it was to ask whether Ralof still wanted to accompany him.  

Something was bothering his friend. Ralof could see that much.  He had followed Wulf to the remains of a town where he had been branded a traitor by his fellow soldiers, where he and the man he fought for had nearly been executed, and where a dragon had appeared.  Whatever was wrong with Wulf's destination, it could hardly be worse.  "Spit it out, where are we going?"

"To your favourite place that you've always dreamt about visiting," Wulf threw back, but his heart sank.  Ralof would not like the answer. 

"The Satin brothel in Solitude?"

"Almost."  Wulf chewed on the inside of his cheek, before admitting "It's Bleak Falls Barrow."

Ralof cast his friend a dark glare.  "Wulf, that's not funny." 

"That's because it's not a joke."  Wulfryk was dead serious. 

Ralof had been wrong.  There were worse things than Helgen and Wulf had just managed to find one.  Ralof cursed, "Talos' balls, Wulf, what do you want from that place?"

" _I_ want nothing more than to stay away from it.  The Jarl, however, wishes for me to retrieve an artefact called 'dragonstone'.  And since it's inside the barrow, that's where I'm heading."  Some time passed before Wulf added, "You don't have to come with me, you know." 

Ralof rubbed his eyes.  He would not abandon his friend on this dangerous mission.  "You won't get rid of me so easily," he said instead.  Somewhere, deep inside, a cowardly little voice wished he could take back those words.  Ralof crushed the urge and resigned himself to the fact that he might just have made a huge mistake.  At least he had a week to get used to the thought of entering the one place he had always tried to avoid. 

 oooo

The countryside around Riverwood slowly began to feel familiar to Wulf, as he had passed it five times already.  Gerdur was happy to see them unharmed and whilst she had not liked the thought of them going to Helgen, she believed that entering Bleak Falls Barrow was a suicidal fool's errand.  In spite of this, she had no suggestions what Wulf was to say to Jarl Balgruuf if he did not retrieve the dragonstone. 

Anything that could be spared, Wulf left with Gerdur.  He spent one more night with Ralof's family and on the morrow he and Ralof departed for Bleak Falls Barrow.  Ralof rode in the lead and at first they took the same road that Wulf had travelled to Whiterun, but after passing the stone bridge that spanned the White River they turned left, not right.  Wulfryk was happy to follow Ralof as they rode up the winding mountain path.  Today he was wearing his white war paint – a streak that started above his left brow, cut across it and continued under his eye, where it split in two curved lines that reached down to his beard line – again, something he had not bothered with since he had left his home in Elsweyr.  As a caravan guard he had always painted his face.  Apart from it being a trademark of his people, it made him look the part of a savage barbarian and fit most people's ideas about Nords, who were known for their bravery and prowess in battle even far beyond the borders of Skyrim.  He had been much more likely to get a job if he looked tough.  His tall, bulky frame certainly came in handy, too. 

In fact, Wulf had once hired upon a caravan with three other of his countrymen.  When bandits ambushed them, the four of them had rushed from cover, bellowing ‘Victory or Sovngarde!!' at the top of their lungs and charged their attackers, brandishing their weapons like madmen.  The very sight of the Nords bearing down upon them had been enough to send the bandits scurrying.  The caravan had reached its destination unhindered and without loss of life or goods.  The merchant had been so impressed, he kept Wulfryk and the others in his employ for a year straight. 

Wulf was jerked out of his thoughts when his horse stopped abruptly.  Before them, a landslide had turned the path into a trail so narrow and steep they had to dismount and lead their horses.  Their progress was slow, as it was not easy with the animals, and they lost much time whenever they had to stop and search for an alternative route.  The ascent took them two days and by the end of the second they were high over Riverwood and had a stunning vista of the valley and the blue ribbon of the river winding below.  As night fell, Ralof and Wulf stumbled up the last slope.  Their horses fared better; their night vision was more acute.  They were so close though, they did not want to spend another night in the woods, especially since it had drizzled throughout the day and both longed for a dry spot to rest. 

Bleak Falls Barrow stood out against the starry sky, a yawning black maw ready to devour them.  Up close the ruins looked even more foreboding than they already did from a distance.  Just then, faint laughter reached Wulf's ears.  The horses lifted their heads and perked up their ears.  Wulf and Ralof exchanged a look.  Apparently they were not the only ones who sought to enter the barrow.  The only question that remained was whether these were honest folk seeking shelter or grave robbers.   The chances were high it was the latter.  

Their path was sufficiently illuminated by the stars and two moons, and the Nords had not lit any torches.  They would need those later, inside the barrow. Wulf strung his bow while Ralof tied off the horses.  Under the cover of darkness they approached, a bend taking them within sight of a watchtower.  The warm glow of a fire emanated from inside and several people appeared to have a drunken argument. 

 They crept closer to listen in on the squabble. 

"I says we don't wanna wait around for that Dark Elf bastard.  He'll stab us in the back, he'll do, just you see," a male voice rose and drowned out the others. 

A woman answered, "We came so far, you want ta run now, Brand?  Think 'bout all the treasure hidden inside tha' Barrow."

"Yeah," another voice joined in, high and whining. "Even that blasted Goldskin was all excited. Too bad for him he didn't have the balls for this! Now all that gold is going to be ours!"

"I care less about the treasure with every day.  Only thing I can think of is how that barrow 's gonna be my own grave," the first man answered. 

"Listen up folks, we got us a coward 'ere," the woman shouted and her statement was accompanied by a chorus of cheers. 

"Fuck you, woman."  There was the sound of armour clinking and the warrior declared, "I gotta piss," and left the tower.  Night-blind due to looking at the fire, he stumbled right past where Wulf and Ralof were standing.  They froze; if the bandit saw them and raised the alarm, they would never get inside the barrow.  Ralof raised his axe, but a hand on his arm stopped him.  Wulf shook his head slightly.  Ralof watched as his friend padded after the bandit on silent feet.  With his black hair and suntanned skin, Wulf disappeared into the night. 

Wulfryk found the man watering a tree and snuck up, putting his bow down and drawing a dagger.  The bandit never heard him before Wulf had a good grip on his hair with one hand and held the blade to his target's throat with the other.  Wulf was careful to stand beside the man and not behind him, where he could get kicked or his face bashed in, but with both hands on his cock, there was little the bandit could do without Wulf noticing first.  "Shout and I'll gut you like a horker," he told the surprised outlaw, who pissed on his own leg from shock, without noticing.  "Brand, wasn't it?" Wulf asked. 

The other man gave a tiny nod, mindful of the razor sharp edge at his throat. 

"Are the others your friends?"

This time Brand shook head.  "No," he croaked hoarsely. 

"How many of you are there?" Wulf enquired further. 

It took some time for the bandit to answer, but that was probably more due to him trying to get the count right in his inebriated state than from an attempt to deceive Wulfryk.  If Wulf thought otherwise, he would have slit his throat without hesitation. 

"There's three in the tower and four more inside the barrow," Brand rasped out.  "And there's Arvel, the Dunmer.  There were others, but they're all dead now."

"Do the others inside the barrow have any reason to come looking for you?" 

"Not until tomorrow midday.  That's when we change the watch," the outlaw responded. 

"Good," Wulf praised him softly. "Now if I told you to run down that path," he gave the bandit a little nudge in the direction he meant and continued, "You wouldn't think about turning back and warning the others, would you?  There's no need for you to die if you are gone by the time I count to three." 

"I won't tell the others, I swear," the bandit began to sob, but even now he did not plead for his life. 

Damn it, Wulf couldn't in cold blood murder somebody who cried like that.  He withdrew his dagger and with a sharp kick to the bandit's knee, he sent the man sprawling.  It gave Wulf enough time to pick up his bow and draw an arrow that he aimed at the outlaw's chest.  "One," Wulf began to count. 

The bandit scampered up and the look on his face clearly said that he had not truly believed that he was getting out of this encounter alive.  Now though he wasted no time in following Wulf's orders.  With his cock still out and flapping around he turned and bolted down the path. 

Wulf relaxed his bow, sheathed his dagger and slunk back to where Ralof was waiting.  He made sure Ralof heard him approach; the last thing Wulfryk wanted was his friend's axe buried in his skull. 

"You disposed of that one?" Ralof asked quietly. 

"I let him go," Wulf whispered.  "I doubt we will be seeing him again and he was very cooperative." 

"If you're sure," Ralof muttered. 

Wulf nodded, though in the dark the gesture was probably lost on Ralof.  "There's eight more, three of them inside this tower," he told his brother in arms. 

The woman they had heard before took that very moment to stand in the doorway and scream, "Did your dick fall off, 'And?  Are you searching fer it in tha woods?"  Her laughter was cut short when Wulf's arrow passed through her chest, dropping her dead in an instant. 

The arrow flew on and landed with a clatter between the two remaining bandits who stared at it for a fraction of a second, and then jumped into action.  A burly man went for his battleaxe, while the remaining man scampered for a bow of his own.  Wulfryk decided to shoot down the archer.  He hit him high in the back and although the wound probably was not fatal, it should be enough to prevent him from drawing a bow. 

And then there was no more time for shooting, because the axe-wielding warrior was storming right at them.  His size alone made him a formidable enemy, and he was not nearly as drunk as his comrades had been.  He swiped his blade high, aiming for their heads.  Wulf jumped back, but Ralof ducked beneath the blow and his own weapon hit the bandit in the shin, where it got stuck halfway through.  If Ralof had not been so rushed, he would have hacked the man's leg right off.  As it was, the injury was enough to stop the warrior in his tracks.  He went down on one knee and looked at the axe sticking out of his leg in surprise.  Obviously, he had not yet registered the pain.  Wulf did not give him any time to scream, however.  His shield bashed the outlaw's face in, and he thrust his sword through the man's chest to put him down quickly whilst Ralof dashed inside the tower to finish off the archer. 

The remaining bandit spat bloody phlegm at Ralof's feet.  "Bastards."  The blond Nord killed him by sticking a dagger through his throat and the bandit went down gurgling and coughing blood. 

The fight was over in less than one minute and with the remaining outlaws none the wiser.  Wulf had enjoyed it, short as it had been it was enough to lift his spirits that had been pretty much dampened by the foul weather.  Ralof did not feel half as cheerful.  "The beautiful places you always take me," he complained as he and Wulf dragged the corpses away and dumped them down the slope behind the watchtower. 

"What did you expect, Princess?  Dinner and a date in a palace?" 

"I wouldn't say no to dinner," Ralof grumbled. 

"Help yourself, then.  The bandits left plenty of food behind."  Wulf wiped his hands and went inside the tower, Ralof in tow.  He'd feel better once he had a change of clothes and a full belly.  They had hidden their horses away on the other side of the barrow, where the other bandits were far less likely to stumble across them than this close to the tower.  Now Wulfryk put out the fire and closed the door to the tower, barring it with a wooden plank. 

They ate and spread their bedrolls in a backroom, away from the pool of blood that had formed where the last bandit had bled out.  Splitting the night's watch between two people was an uncomfortable affair as it meant none would get enough sleep and both of them were tired from hiking up the mountain for two days.  If the Brand had told the truth, and Wulf believed that he had, they didn't have anything to fear until tomorrow.  That night Wulfryk went to sleep with one eye open. 


	6. BTS

Early next morning Ralof climbed the stairs to look out from the top of the tower. The night had passed without incident and everything was peaceful and quiet. After they had assured themselves that no bandits lurked outside the tower to slaughter them as they themselves had done, Wulf and Ralof gathered their packs and left the tower. Despite it being late spring there was a light cover of snow lying on the ground and the heavy, dark clouds promised more snow to come. Wulfryk was really glad they had not spent the night out in the open.

Bleak Falls Barrow was as unwelcoming a place as the name suggested. Wulf pried open the door and carefully peeked inside. Behind it there was a lofty hall with high stone pillars and a roof that had given away, strewing stone boulders all across the floor. There were dead skeever lying around and at the far end a fire burned low and around it Wulfryk saw two forms sleeping on makeshift beds of fur. The bandits died quickly and quietly.

That left three outlaws to go. Together, Ralof and Wulf briefly searched the room, but besides some coin the bandits' possessions were meagre. The only thing Wulf lifted off one corpse was a new whetstone. It wasn't like the woman would need it anymore. Ralof picked something up from a rickety table.

"What have you got?" Wulf called over.

Ralof frowned at his find. "It looks like a journal. There are dates written here." The blond Nord's brows scrunched up. "The newest entry is... a week old." He looked up at Wulfryk, a man who had travelled over two hundred miles to regain a book, one he had lugged with him for over a decade. He could probably read. Ralof could not, but he had recognized the symbols for the date. Wordlessly, he held the journal out. Wulf took it and wandered off in search of a place with better light.

"Let's see." Wulfryk cleared his throat and began to read.

_"Tirdas, 5th of Second Seed:_

_When I was first approached by that elf I must say I was sceptical. He introduced himself as Sariilion - what kind of a name is that, anyway? If it's even his real one; and why would he be interested in hiring me? The whole matter stinks worse than a Tel Vosi whore, but it can't hurt to play along for now, can it?_

_Middas, 18th of Second Seed:_

_My fingers are trembling. The Golden Claw is finally in my hands, and with it the power of the ancient Nordic heroes. That fool Lucan Valerius had no idea that his favourite store decoration was actually the key to Bleak Falls Barrow. As it turns out everything that Goldskin said was true so far. And all he wants is some old stone. He can keep it for all I care, because ere the week is over I'm going to be rich. Now I only need my hirelings to clear the way so I can sneak to the Sanctum. I hope they croak it, because I'm not sharing that treasure._

_Heh, it's a good thing none of them dimwits know how to read._

_Now I just need to get to the Hall of Stories and unlock the door. The legend says there is a test that the Nords put in place to keep the unworthy away, but that 'when you have the Golden Claw, the solution is in the palm of your hands'."_

"It is signed 'Arvel's Journal.'" Arvel... that was the Dunmer leader Brand had mentioned, Wulf remembered. "A literate criminal, what a surprise." He snorted.

Ralof however was looking at the book in disbelief. "Did it say Lucan Valerius?"

"Yep," Wulf answered. "Do you know him?"

"Of course. And so do you. He runs the general goods store in Riverwood," Ralof responded.

"Imperial, short hair, has a sister of... easy virtues?" This couldn't be a coincidence.

"That's the man. Hey, didn't Delphine mention a break-in?" the blond warrior asked.

Wulf shrugged and cast another look at the journal. "Well, well. It's a good thing Arvel stole this Claw then. Without this," Wulf lifted the book, "We would never have found the key if there really is a locked door. I'm worried about that employer of his, though."

"You know, that name sounds an awful lot likeThalmor," Ralof said, wincing.

"It _is_ an Aldmeri name," Wulf confirmed his fears and quickly suggested, "Let's just get that dragonstone and get out of here. As long as he is waiting for Arvel to do the job for him, he shouldn't bother us. And I for one do not plan on staying around."

Ralof nodded and then both men hesitated for a while,neither of them particularly eager to be the first to enter the depths of the barrow.

"You know, my father always told me to stay away from these old ruins. Good advice, I'd say." Ralof took a torch from their packs and lit it. He took a deep breath and then the lead, shield up and torch out, illuminating their way. Wulf followed with an arrow nocked. If they encountered trouble, he should be able to shoot it down, giving Ralof enough time to draw his axe.

The corridor continued straight ahead and took a turn to the left, sloping ever downwards. The air became increasingly cooler and there was moss growing on the damp walls. It was not the first ancient grave Wulf passed through, but those places never were pleasant. As they reached what must have been a lower level, there was a draft that made both men shiver and the flame of their torch flicker madly. Long fingers of shade danced across the walls, greedily reaching out towards them. The shadows of the two men were lengthy, distorted creatures that trailed their owners soundlessly.

The farther they went, the colder it became. The original tunnel had crumpled away at times, but somebody had mined past the blockades. Or maybe the barrow had always been hewn into rock and used a natural cave system. The echo of their footsteps rang loudly in the empty corridor and Wulf winced when Ralof stepped on something that snapped with a loud crack. The ground was uneven and strewn with pebbles and the bones of small animals. Their spluttering torch did not give off much light and Wulf trailed one hand along the wall. The passage was too narrow for two to walk abreast and he cursed when his pack caught on stones that stuck out.

Suddenly Ralof stopped; above the sound of their breath Wulf could make out the faint resonance of footsteps. _Toc. Toc. Toc._ There was a pause before the sound picked up again. _Toc. Toc. Toc._

Whatever was coming their way, Wulfryk readied his bow, though beyond the weak cone of light he could make out absolutely nothing. They stood and waited for the steps to come closer, until the flame of their torch began to wane and threatened to gutter out entirely, leaving them in impenetrable darkness. Wulf quickly unhooked one of the drenched rags he had readied and Ralof deftly wrapped it around the wooden pole and when the oil caught with a bright flame they both breathed a sigh of relief. And still in the distance a soft tapping continued. _Toc. Toc. Toc_.

Hesitantly, Ralof stepped forward again. Soon a faint rustling could be heard, though it grew louder as they walked on. Before long it evolved into a steady rumble, the rush of fast flowing water. The rhythmic thumps had continued as well, growing in volume. Once again they had to stop, though this time because the way ended and a steep ravine opened up beneath their feet. Wulf lit a second torch and after some searching they found a way that wound downwards in a spiral. How far down, they could not guess and Ralof finally threw down one torch so that they could see. Best to know what they were dealing with, and if one misstep one the narrow path would send them tumbling to their deaths on the rocks below.

There was the glow of eyes as the torch flew past, accompanied by a low hissing sound and scurrying noises in the darkness. Rats. Or worse, skeever. Unlike their smaller cousins, skeever were no rodents, but carnivorous animals that were often found living in caves and sewers. Though individual specimen could grow to the size of a middle-sized dog, they were usually roughly cat-sized and posed little danger on their own. Their packs though could number several dozen and through numbers alone they could bring down even a grown man. And they were ridden with disease. Hopefully, the fire would be enough to keep them away.

The hissing torch landed on the bank of an underground river some twenty-five feet below. A waterfall descended from a crack in the ceiling with a thunderous boom, and the water gushed in a broad stream through the small cave and into a passageway. At the entry a rusty iron gate hung askew in the current, and occasionally hit the stone walls with a loud clamour. Wulf and Ralof chuckled at the origin of the sound that had caused them so much distress, but before long all merriment left them, for there was nothing they could do but step into the water if they wanted to go on. Setting down the torches and Wulf's bow on a small outcrop the Nords stripped of their shoes and socks and rolled their pants up. There was no need to ruin good leather clothes. Wulf cautiously stepped into the water; it was icy cold and about knee-deep. The current was swift and the stones were slippery with foul-smelling silt and shifted beneath his feet, causing him to almost lose balance. Ralof followed reluctantly.

The warriors followed the corridor as it led them deeper into the bowels of the earth. After a while the river ended, disappearing beneath the earth with a loud gurgle. Luck was with them, insofar as the way did not branch out. The thought of being struck down here forever, wandering until their fire went out and they were truly lost and could only wait for the skeever to come and nibble at their bodies, was enough for Ralof to send a prayer to Talos for strength. This place chilled his blood and he was not ashamed to admit it.

When the pathway broadened once more, Wulf and Ralof put on their shoes again and extinguished the second torch. After having two fires, the darkness pressed in on them from all sides, but they might come to regret it later if they unnecessarily wasted their resources.

By the time they noticed a soft glow ahead of them, they had been walking in the dark for so long that the dim flame of the torch was enough to blind them. The  Nords almost stumbled out of the corridor and into an open space. A chamber built by humans this time, not a cavern. Wulf threw one glance at the burning lanterns, grabbed Ralof by the collar, and dragged him back into the shadows. "Put the fire out," he whispered insistently.

Ralof plunged the torch into the earth, quickly extinguishing the fire. None too soon, as two shadows skittered across the floor and up the walls, and a man and a woman stepped into view, their silhouettes visible against the light of their lamps. The bandits walked past Wulf and Ralof's hiding place and out of sight again.

There was a heavy scrape followed by a loud thump.

"That grey-skinned maggot has played us for fools!" the man spoke.

"Let's face it, Soling, he's gone for good and the Claw with him," the woman answered. "There's nothing left here for us, except dustmen to fight. Let's get out before the big crawlers get to us."

After a moment of silence and with a heavy exhale, the man finally acquiesced. "Fine."

Wulfryk stepped out of the shadows. A stocky, dark haired man with a thick beard sat at the table and a tall, lithe woman stood at his back. When he saw them, the man made to stand up, his hand going for his blade, but the woman's nails dug into his arm, stopping him.

"We were just leaving," she said, sounding surprisingly calm for someone who had an arrow pointing at her chest. The man grunted.

"Good." Wulf's voice had turned as cold as his eyes. He had no trouble to kill somebody who stood in his way, but if possible, he preferred a solution that was not bloody. Not because of his conscience or a misguided sense of pity for his quarry, but because with every fight he risked injury and, consequently, his life. "Best leave now, before I reconsider."

"Do me a favour, would you," the man suddenly spoke up. "If you find him, kill that two-faced, pointy-eared son of a snowtroll."

Wulf gave a curt nod. If the thought of them killing that Arvel guy made the bandit happy, he would play along.

Slowly the bandit got up, and without taking their eyes from Wulf, the two outlaws inched their way past, and into the corridor Wulf and Ralof had just come from. Wulfryk let them go. His gut told him they would not bother them again and it would be mighty hypocritical of him to condemn them for robbing a grave. After all, that's what he and Ralof were about to do.

Their way continued down the flight of stairs the bandits had come up a moment before, and then through another long tunnel. After a moment of walking Wulf's hand trailed over something different than damp stonework and moss. Something fine and sticky that tore upon contact, but the remains of which clung to his hand.

"Are these cobwebs?"

Ralof moved his torch closer and now they could see fine silvery threads reflecting the light before they burned away. The glistening network spanned the entire ceiling of the passageway and soon it extended over the walls as well. It did not take long for the webs to get denser and the ground showed the first of the spiders' victims. The dry, shrunken corpses of small animals littered the floor and crunched under the two Nords' feet. Bats and moths had gotten tangled in the sticky traps and their cocoons hung from the walls like grisly ornaments. Soon, Wulf had to brush the cobwebs out of his face. They got tangled in his and Ralof's hair and clothes nonetheless. He was not squeamish, but the feeling of the cool, silken threads sliding over his skin was decidedly repulsive.

Ralof stopped abruptly. It was so unexpected, Wulf ran into his friend's back. But the proximity allowed him to look past Ralof's shoulder at what blocked their further way. The corridor was spanned by a single, perfect net. Wulf _stared_. The presence of the web was not the cause for his hammering heart though, but the fact that the single strands were as thick as a finger. What kind of spider did it take to make such a thread? Solid enough to catch larger prey and strong enough to snare... a person.

Wulf heard Ralof's sharp intake of breath. "Frostbites."

"What?"

"Spiders," Ralof clarified. "Big ones." He shuddered. "I hate those damn things. Too many eyes, you know."

"Anything else I should know about?" Wulf asked sarcastically.

"Don't get yourself bitten. Their bite is usually not dangerous to a Nord, but it's darn unpleasant."

"Right." Wulf still wondered what he had expected. So this country of giants was also inhabited by oversized spiders. Lovely.

At least they did not have to hack their way through the netting, because Ralof set it aflame with his torch. They watched as the white strands turned molten and dripped to the floor to form a pool of congealed, milky liquid. Ralof shuddered. "This might be a good time for a second torch," he said. "But I doubt the fire will keep them away for long."

They made a few adjustments to their equipment before continuing on wearily. Both men had drawn their weapons. Wulf's bow was still strung, but strapped securely to the side of his pack, since he doubted it would do much good against this kind of enemy. When their way took a sharp turn to the left, they saw the corridor end in a large chamber. Judging by the amount of webs, they had just managed to find the spiders' nest. Wulf was not even surprised when he and Ralof cursed simultaneously.

A shrill cry rang out in answer. "Is someone coming? Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"

"There's Arvel," Wulf muttered darkly. It looked like the outlaw was hopelessly entangled in one of the larger webs.

The bandit caught sight of their torches and he began to thrash wildly and to scream, "Help me! Set me down, please! Please, help me!" His shrieks reverberated loudly in the cavernous hollow.

"He will bring the Frostbites down on us! Wulf, silence him," Ralof grit out between clenched teeth, forgetting that Wulf's bow was not in the other man's hand.

"I can't," Wulfryk bit back. "Shit!" He grit his teeth. If they did not act fast, things might go down badly. "Watch my back," Wulf told Ralof and quickly stepped into the cavern, jogging up to the panicked bandit.

"Shut up, you bloody idiot!" Wulf hissed at the struggling Dunmer. It seemed that he had finally gotten through to the bandit, because the man stilled.

The unexpected silence made Ralof look around, and up. His heart suddenly stopped in its tracks. Wulf had walked right into the beast's lair.

Arvel was not the prey.

He was the bait.

Wulfryk was busy cutting the outlaw free, when he heard Ralof's panicked cry. "Wulf, look out!" For the first time there was real fear in Ralof's voice.

He turned around. Ralof had said that Frostbite spiders were big. He had downplayed their size somewhat. The monster that lowered itself from the ceiling in a languid, graceful way that was terrifying to behold, had a torso as big as Wulf's horse. Its hairy body wobbled between eight long but slender legs, and it had fangs that would make a sabretoothed cat proud.

In shock, Arvel exclaimed " _Arkay, have mercy!"_   It made the spider turn their way. Behind Wulf, the Dunmer began to blubber some nonsense.  If there ever had been a time for prayer, this was it. When eight black, beady and utterly merciless eyes trained on him, Wulfryk's sword dropped from his limp fingers with a loud clatter.

oooo

"Wulf!" Ralof shouted and rushed forward to aid his friend, despite the fact that his blood felt frozen in his veins. He was jerked to a sudden stop when something latched onto his leg. Another spider had lowered itself behind Ralof and crept up unnoticed. Now it sank its claws in Ralof's thigh. The blond Nord cast one last, futile glance in Wulf's direction before he was forced to fend for himself, as more of the monsters crawled closer. The one clinging to him died from a powerful stroke of Ralof's axe. There were more that followed, though. He swept his axe high and low, hacking at legs that stretched his way, sinking their sharp claws into his flesh and tearing through it. Before long, Ralof was forced to retreat to avoid having his legs cut to shreds. He cursed avidly and crushed one of the smaller crawlers by stomping on it. Another spider died when Ralof clove through what he could not quite bring himself to call head. And more spiders came his way, climbing over the bodies of their fallen cousins, fanning out and circling past the warrior who found himself fighting not to be overwhelmed. When a searing pain tore through Ralof's calf, all he could do was to stay upright. He dropped his torch though, and the chamber was darkened instantly, most of the light coming from the flame's reflection in the spiders' multitude of eyes.

Ralof screamed when the venom tore through his body, numbing his leg and making it a dead weight that buckled under the warrior. He renewed his attack with fervour fuelled by fear. If they got his other leg, he would go down, and then nothing would stop the spiders from swarming him.

oooo

It seemed an eternity passed as Wulf stood, frozen, looking at the monstrosity that stood before him. Behind the spider and out of his view, he could hear Ralof scream. He was ripped out of his stasis at once, but his movement also caused the giant Frostbite to act and Wulf saw pincers drenched in venom open and snap shut with a faint click.

He did not think. He acted. Raising his arms, twin balls of fire shot from his outstretched palms and exploded when they hit the monstrous arachnoid. Just to be sure, Wulf followed it up by two more fireballs. It was probably an overkill, as the spider went up in a column of roaring flames and was ripped apart by the force of the magic attack. Its legs were torn off and sailed through the air in various directions, while the huge torso thundered to the floor and rolled across it. Thick, oily smoke coiled from the bloated body and eight empty eyesockets stared up at Wulf, who already felt the after-effects of his excessive casting. A throbbing headache threatened to overwhelm him, the prize he had to pay for using magic. It rendered him practically useless, which was why Wulf avoided it unless it was absolutely necessary. This time though, he had no regrets.

When an explosion shook the cave, the light and heat washed over Ralof. At once, the remaining spiders scattered, leaving the Nord bewildered and looking around wildly. Of the giant Frostbite only chunks remained that spread an awful stench and over the remains of the carcass Wulfryk stood, arms still raised, before he slowly sank to his knees.

Ralof looked at his friend like he had seen him for the first time. He had questions he needed to ask, but they could probably wait until they were somewhere safer.

Apparently he would have to be the one to take action. Ralof picked up his fallen torch and made his way to Wulf's side. The other man sat with his hands clenched around his head and when he did not react, Ralof grew worried. Had the huge spider bitten Wulf? He placed a head on Wulfryk's shoulder, giving it a slight shake. "Wulf?"

"'M' fine," Wulf said in a small, miserable voice.

Relief washed through Ralof. Secrets or no, Wulf had just saved their lives. Ralof turned to their one remaining problem: the bandit Arvel.

When he saw Ralof seizing him up, the outlaw began to plead once more "You, set me down, please. Don't leave me, for Arkay's sake."

"Careful," Wulf murmured from his place on the floor. "He already betrayed his hirelings."

Ralof stood before the Dunmer. "The Claw for your life," he bargained.

It tool Arvel a long time to think the proposal through, but finally he gave in. "It's in my bag," he whined in a petulant voice.

Ralof took the Claw and cut the bandit free, who quickly scrambled up and away, leaving Wulf and Ralof alone once more.

Wulf struggled to get back on his feet. When Ralof reached out, he gladly took the offered hand, but his voice was hard. "You should have killed him."

"You're the one who let all the others get away," Ralof reminded his friend.

Wulf nodded. "Yes," he responded. "But this one's trouble." He looked around. "Never mind, now. Let's find a safe place away from here, I need to rest."

They left the spiders' nest behind them and soon the webs became less, dwindling away to the tiny cobwebs one would expect to find in an old, abandoned place. Wulf was half-asleep on his feet, but he still noticed that Ralof was limping badly. They walked on for a few more minutes and after a little while the natural tunnel ended and they entered a passageway of human make again. There were chambers to both sides of the corridor, and the two Nords chose an empty one for a resting place.

Ralof and Wulf unburdened themselves from their backpacks and Wulf flopped down on the floor, intending to have a nap then and there. His eyes shot open though, when Ralof unbuckled his belt and let down his pants to take survey of the damage that lay underneath. Deep gashes and puncture wounds marred both his legs and bled freely. One leg in particular looked swollen, and part of it was an angry red in colour. It was obvious by Ralof's tight, drawn mouth and eyebrows that the man was in a great deal of pain. Hell, a cat's claws had nothing on those spiders.

For the moment Wulf fought back his tiredness. "Sit down," he told his friend, not unkindly, and Ralof obliged, wincing when lowering himself aggravated his wounds.

Wulfryk rummaged around in his pack, until he found what he was looking for: a small clay bowl he poured a moderate amount of oil into, and a wicker that Wulf drenched, put in the bowl's pitch and lit from the torch. Next, he put out the torches. Their tiny lamp didn't give off much light, no more than a candle, but in the absolute darkness it was enough to see and, more importantly, it could last for hours without using up nearly as many supplies as the torch. He also fished out a pewter jar and handled it to Ralof. "Use this," he advised the blond warrior, before he had to yawn. Pulling a thick fur mantle from his pack, which he used as a pillow, Wulf wrapped himself up in the blanket and, within a minute, he was out cold.

Ralof watched Wulf with disbelief. How his friend could fall asleep in this place was beyond him. He shrugged and dipped his fingers into the jar's contents, spreading the salve over the worst of his cuts and the bite-mark. The relief was instant and Ralof gasped as the pain abated, leaving behind a faint tingling. The slashes stopped bleeding and within a short while they scabbed over. His calf still hurt, but it was a dull, deep ache that he could deal with, and not the sharp, acute pain from before. Ralof scooped up a bit more of the salve and worked it into the reddened area around the bite. With how his wounds felt better already, he would be able to walk normally again. The warrior settled more comfortably against the back wall and with his axe lying across his knees and his gaze directed at the entry, he kept watch.


	7. BTS

Wulf awoke with a slight start.  He felt disoriented at first, but when his eyes settled on Ralof, he remembered their adventure with the spiders.  Ralof sat motionlessly and at first Wulf thought his friend had fallen asleep too, until Ralof turned his head and greeted him with a wry smile and a 'good morning'. 

Wulfryk sat up and stretched.  His temples still throbbed lightly, but he could handle that.  Judging by how much oil had burned up, a  couple of hours had passed.  It was high time to move on.  Unless Ralof needed to rest, that was.  "Do you want to take a nap, too?" 

Ralof shook his head.  "I'm good." 

"How are your legs?" Wulf asked. 

Ralof showed him.  Much of the swelling had gone down and new, pink skin covered what only hours ago had been bleeding gashes.  "They're much better," he said and a hint of wonder still lay in his voice.  "You have some very good ointment."

Wulf chuckled.  "I know," he simply said.  "It has served me well many times."  He had made it too, but Ralof didn't need to know that. 

As if the blond man had read his thoughts, he suddenly enquired, "So, you have got to tell me: how did you learn all those things?" 

"What things?"  Wulf packed his mantle to buy himself time and then uncorked his water bottle and drank deeply. 

They ate in silence and it seemed Ralof was lost in thought, but soon he pried further.  "Fighting.  Riding.  Reading.  Pickling locks and now magic.  That's not something an every guard knows." 

"Have you ever guarded a caravan, Ralof?" Wulf asked.  When the other man shook his head, he continued.  "It is boring work, mostly.  Lots of walking.  And when you have to be somewhere quick, riding.  My employers were in a hurry and so they tossed me on a horse.  That's how I learned to ride.  It's not one of my fondest memories." 

In retrospect, Wulf guessed it was funny.  It would certainly make for a good story, though at the time he had clung to his horse's mane in panic, and after hoursspent in the saddle day after day, the insides if his thighs had been rubbed raw and bleeding.  He still bore the scars, though they had faded over time.  "My balls were blue for a fortnight." 

Both men shared a laugh and Wulf carried on.  "I learned early on that the more I knew, the better my chances were.  I am not only talking about at getting a job as a hireling; I did those because... I liked to travel," he lied through his teeth, "but about survival.  I could have quit my mercenary days anytime and settled in a nice, dull village to live as a scribe."  Now, maybe. But not when he had needed it the most, but that was beside the point.  It was having a choice that Wulfryk valued and if chance failed to provide him with the necessary opportunities, well, then he had learned to create his own. 

"I offered my clients a discount if they taught me something new.  Travelling takes lots of time without anything to do but talk.  Most of my employers were happy to accept my offer, if only because it saved them coin.  And teaching me usually cost them nothing, except the very thing we had in abundance." 

Reading was one of the first skills he had learned.  He had been very young then, and the kindly old merchant had probably taken him on out of pity.  Or maybe because Wulf had been willing to do work for food alone.  But when they were stuck together on a single cart for weeks on end, the merchant had decided they might as well do something productive.  His eyesight was failing him and having somebody who could keep track of the ledgers for him was a valuable aid indeed.  When a party of outlaws harassed them, the guards took care of them, and off their corpses Wulf looted what now was his most treasured possession.  Even without the sentiment attached to it, the thick, leather-bound book with its pages of vellum was worth a fortune. 

Wulfryk knew that the more he was familiar with, the more likely it was for him to find some common ground with another person.  He had become very successful as a guard, because he was not just hired muscle; he was a travel companion as well.  He worked as a guide, a translator if the need arose, and he entertained his employers with stories when the journey dragged on, or around the campfire.  

Wulf's repertoire of skills included swimming; in addition to the regionally variable Trader's Tongue he fluently spoke Nordic, High Cyrodilic and Ta'agra, the language of Elsweyr. He knew enough of Altmeris to get by and even snippets of Bretic and Yoku.  A lifetime on the road and an insatiable curiosity had served him well.  Reading was followed by writing and he also could play the lute a bit, though he had not used that particular skill in years, and he was probably rusty. 

Wulf learned to be well-spoken when around more noble clients and when wealthy merchants had hired him, the gold coins in his purse multiplied.  He spent them on teachers – and so the circle began anew. 

"I learned to fight from my fellow guards and from experience."  Wulf knew now that he was darned lucky to have lived thus far.  When he had left home, he had barely known the hilt of a sword from its point. 

"As to the magic – I was once the bodyguard of a wizard.  Crazy old bugger, that one.  I was damn lucky to unload him at the Mage's Guild when I did.  I heard he blew it up."  

Wulfryk laughed.  Now those had been some good old times.  Cyremon had insisted on teaching him magic, despite Wulf's protests and the fact that he was a Nord – not a race known for their magical aptitude.  Wulfryk had succeeded at his first spell when he had grown so fed up with the codger that he had set him on fire.  He had been horrified, but the Altmer had been ecstatic with his success.  But true to his race, Wulf's magical abilities were very limited.  He could work a little destruction magic and a few minor healing spells, he could make a small globe of light and cast runes – actually that was something he was rather good at.  Despite his harsh words, Wulf had been fond of the man and he stayed with the mage for a long time, and regardless of his advanced age the Altmer had worn him out, dragging his bodyguard into all sorts of trouble, usually when they explored some ancient Ayleid ruins.  In the end Wulf was forced to acknowledge the fact that his life expectancy increased proportionally to the distance he put between himself and the mage.  But he could not leave the doddering old fool out in the wilds and so he had brought him to the Mage's Guild in Skingrad.  Wanted posters with his face on them probably still hung in the city. 

Wulf told Ralof all that and a little more, and by the time his voice faded into silence, they had finished their meal of dry rations.  They packed and lit their torches once more, ready to head onwards.  The corridor took them to the lowest levels of the barrow: the catacombs.  The chamber was vast and on stone beds set in the walls the dead of the ancient Nords lay. 

"This is no mere tomb," Ralof breathed "It's a maze." 

They looked around.  There were countless stone biers, stacked one upon the other, and several corridors joined, forming a huge underground labyrinth. 

"Where do we go?"  Wulf had no idea.  He guessed one direction was as good as another.  Searching the entire tomb might take hours. 

Before Ralof could answer, the decision was taken from out of their hands.  A sudden flash of bright light blinded the two warriors and through his squinted eyes, Wulf saw Ralof stumble and something golden whip past his head, and disappear into the dim interior of the tomb.  There was a shout of joy and he caught sight of slender figure detaching itself from the shadows.  With his grey skin the Dunmer had blended seamlessly with the darkness.  Arvel cast one last look at the stunned faces of the two Nords, and bolted. 

Wulf brushed past Ralof, almost knocking the other Nord over in his haste.  He took chase after the bandit, who was sprinting between the aisles, disappearing from Wulf's sight when he took a turn.  Damn, but he was fast!  Weighted down as Wulfryk was by his pack, he had no chance of catching up.  It didn't matter.  He only had to be fast enough.  The thief seemed to know where he was headed, but his greed became his downfall when his headlong rush took him to a long, straight corridor.  Wulfryk wasted no time in shooting him down, his movements precise from years of practise, despite his hurry.  Aiming was easy, as the Dunmer did not have a Khajiit's eyes and therefore he had cast a globe of light to light his way. 

"Ha!" Wulf cried in triumph, when his arrow buried itself in Arvel's lower back, the tip protruding from the bandit's abdomen.  "Soling sends his greetings, bastard!"

The bandit went down, screaming.  He tried to crawl away on all fours, but he did not get far, breaking down after a few feet.  The man's anguished shrieks echoed through the barrow, the walls reflecting the sound back and increasing it in magnitude.  Wulfryk pulled a knife made for fighting from its sheath on the small on his back, intending to put an end to Arvel's suffering and to his existence.  Breathing heavily, Ralof joined him and together they stepped forward. 

But something else made its move first. 

With a loud pound and the rusty creak of an old door something heavy slid to the floor.  The dull thud was followed by a harsh scrape and the scuff of feet.  Ralof and Wulf halted their advance and stared into the darkness.  Beyond the light of their torch something was stirring.  There was movement and the faint glint of metal.  Whatever was coming their way, it was dragging a heavy object across the stone tiles with a jarring screech.  The fine hairs on the nape of Wulf's neck rose; the sound set his teeth on edge. 

When it stepped into the light, Wulf saw one of the corpses lift a double bladed war axe.  His mind was still trying to catch up to the fact that one of the mummies had just strolled out of its coffin.  Its eyes were shrunken raisins in a cadaverous face, but they emitted a cold blue glow.  The dead warrior was clad in the rusty remains of a once splendid armour.  Yellowish linen bandages covered the rest of its body, but where they had rotted away, Wulf could see greyish skin, dry as parchment, stretch tight across a skeletal frame. 

The... _thing..._ shuffled unhurriedly towards where Arvel was lying.  The bandit renewed his struggles, dragging himself away on his elbows, but when he could not escape, his shrieks took on a frantic note.  The corpse cast him a pitiless glance, lifted its huge axe and buried the top spike in the outlaw's back.  The Dunmer gave one last shudder and lay still.  At once the barrow was plunged in silence.  The corpse's glowing blue eyes turned towards the two Nords who still stood rooted to the ground.  Then, it lunged. 

All torpidness was gone from the dead body as it attacked, swinging its weapon as if it weighted nothing.  It went straight for Ralof, ignoring Wulf for the time being.  The blond warrior caught the axe's edge on his shield, but he was out of reach of his own weapon and had to wrench his shield free.  His adversary did not give him any time to disentangle himself, but followed up with another swing, pressing Ralof hard. 

To distract it and buy his friend some time, Wulf buried his already drawn knife in the corpse's back - but it did not so much as flinch _.  Shit!_   He did not bother retrieving the knife again, but used his sword to slash at it instead.  His attacks had no visible effect on his opponent, in spite of the sword tearing the dead body apart.  Whatever vile curse kept the carcass moving, it was too strong for a simple weapon to break.  Maybe if he could get a proper blow in, strike its head... But when he crept close, a swing of the axe stopped him and then Ralof jumped forward and the two combatants whirled around and Wulf could not risk accidentally hitting his friend. 

Ralof was holding his own for now, but Wulf could see he had begun to limp again, his movements slowing.  And the corpse came on, tireless and inexorable. 

Wulfryk looked around frantically.  There had to be a way to bring it down.  His eyes came to rest on their discarded torch.  He quickly grabbed it and held it to the bandages.  Whatever balms had been used to preserve the desiccated body caught fire immediately. 

That got its attention.  The corpse screamed, if the dry rattle of a decomposed throat could be called such.  It thrashed around wildly as Wulf and Ralof watched its jerky movements, transfixed, until the fire did its work and the body dropped to the ground, unmoving once more. 

"What in Oblivion was _that_?"  Wulf's eyes were still glued to the corpse.  He wondered if it would get up again. 

"That was a draugr."  Ralof sounded more fascinated than afraid.  "I thought they were just a legend; but then so were dragons." 

"Why are they attacking us?  Except from the fact that we are trespassing through their grave and about to rob it.  But they don't know that, do they?"  Wulf was talking again.  It was something he did when his frayed nerves threatened to get the best of him. 

"The dead don't like it when one disturbs their peace," Ralof stated gravely. 

Wulf gave his friend a look that clearly stated he thought the blond had lost his wits.  "If they don't like me, why are they trying to make me one of their own!?" Wulf nearly shouted, waving his arms. 

Ralof was trying hard to suppress his grin.  "Wulf, calm down."

"Calm down?  You are the one this thing nearly cut down!"

"Yes, and do you see me panicking about it?" Ralof spoke in a soothing voice. 

"No, and that's the problem: you should be!"  Wulf had enough live rivals, but when the dead rose from their graves to add him to the list of the deceased, that's where he drew the line.  "That's it," he firmly stated.  "I'm going back." 

Ralof was telling himself to remain reasonable and not let their talk evolve into a quarrel.  "Through the spiders?" he prompted. 

"I'm _not_ afraid of spiders," Wulf's voice had risen to a full shout.  He pointed with his finger at the draugr "This... this isn't _right_." 

"No, it's not."  Ralof only knew what the old stories told and that wasn't much.  "So we're going back?" he asked, defeated. 

Wulf was running his hands along his face and through his hair vigorously.  "Fuck," he swore.  "I can't go back to Whiterun without that bloody stone."  If he did, he could shove being a Companion as well.  Much more composed he asked, "What do you know of these draugr?" 

"Not much.  But according to the stories they're not very bright.  If we don't wake them up, we could make it."  He tried to sound confident. 

Wulf's next question though was enough to dishearten him.  "How many draugr are there?" 

"I... I don't know," Ralof conceded. 

In a soft voice, Wulf spoke, "Look around, Ralof.  We're inside a grave.  There must be hundreds of dead buried here." 

Ralof swallowed.  A moment ago he had been ready to charge into the barrow, but now his confidence failed him and he eyed the still forms of the mummies.  Watched them for a sign of life. 

Wulf must have seen the doubt in his eyes.  "I won't let us throw our lives away for a stupid stone.  Not even for the Jarl." 

"We have come this far."  It seemed a shame to give up now. 

"You're with me, then?"  The shock from seeing his first draugr sat deep in Wulf's bones, but the fear was abating, albeit slowly.  He drew his knife from the draugr's back, sheathing it. 

"Yes!"  Ralof grinned.  He tried to remember whether he had taken a blow to the head recently, but he couldn't help but feel _exhilarated_.  He had known his friend only for a short time, but these weeks were already turning into some of the most exciting of his life.  He searched Arvel's body and retrieved the Claw.  He held no compassion for the dead bandit.  Some people never learned. 

"Alright, let's go, but silently."  Wulf took the lead, eyes on the floor.  "You look out for draugr," he told Ralof "And I will do so for... other things." 

"Other things?" 

"Traps."  Wulf didn't know how ingenious these ancient Nords had been, but in his experience ruins had at least one.  The Ayleid ruins had been riddled with traps, many of them magical.  Never had Wulf been more glad that his people's talents lay in other directions.  

The draugr at last they could see.  And hear, since they talked.  Wulfryk had nearly died of a heart attack when one of the walking corpses had shouted at him.  He bashed at it with his shield, managing to knock its head askew and extinguish that otherworldly blue glow that emanated from its empty eye sockets. 

Wulf continued, his stride confident though his stomach churned.  He had taken a stupid risk in running after Arvel.  He should have known better.  They had been safe in the caverns, but what awaited them here was anyone's guess.  The passage continued and it led them to another grand chamber.  Wulf and Ralof tiptoed through.  The stone biers had become more elaborate, the coffins ornamental, and decorative carvings adorned the walls.  They had to be getting close to the center of the barrow.  Once it must have been more than a place for the dead to rest, a temple maybe.  The floors had been trodden by many feet, the stones smooth and glossy. 

At an intersection of two corridors Wulf stopped and hunkered down.  "Got you."  He sounded pleased with himself.  He righted himself and turned to Ralof.  "Follow me.  Step exactly where I do." 

Ralof followed the instruction without question.  "How did you know it was there?"  Ralof would have walked right over the trap and never known it was there, until it was too late. 

Wulf smiled smugly.  "See those stones?"  He pointed out the ones they had avoided.  "Nobody's ever set foot on them.  They are dull and don't reflect the light as the rest does." 

Ralof whistled softly.  That was nifty.  A part of him was curious as to what would happen if he were to, say, toss something at the trap.  With some difficulty he tore himself away and followed Wulf.  Their journey continued for a little while and without further incident until they came to a pair of huge, black doors.  They were carved intricately and there was a certain grandeur that set them apart from anything else they had seen so far. 

"This must be it," Ralof breathed.  He reached out to try the handle, but Wulf slapped his hand away.  Ralof watched as his friend knelt to inspect the lock, running his fingers lightly around the keyhole. 

"Give me some more light, please," Wulfryk requested and Ralof moved his torch closer as Wulf drew his roll of lock picking tools from a breast pocket.  He had not told Ralof where he had learned that particular talent, but maybe it was for the better.  Ralof wasn't sure he wanted to know.  Wulf selected what looked like a miniature of a palette knife that masons used.  He was more surprised when his friend handed it to him. 

"Hold it here."  Wulfryk positioned Ralof's hand and the tool.  "And don't move!" he added sternly.  He seemed lost in thought as he pulled other tools out and began to poke around in the lock.  After a while he grunted "The lock is wired."  Wulf checked the position of the tool Ralof was holding.  "Put some pressure on it," he told Ralof. 

"Why?"  The Nord felt anxious.  "What's going to happen?" 

"Nothing, if you don't move," Wulf murmured, his entire focus on the keyhole.  He had three thin metal rods sticking out of it and now he added a fourth, one that resembled a small dagger.  He used it to turn the lock around. 

There was a faint clicking sound and a barely audible ring as something struck the metal plate Ralof was holding.  "What was that?" he asked. 

"That was the poisoned needle that would have killed you, had you pressed the handle down," Wulf answered him evenly, as he collected his tools once more. He didn't know if poison became more poisonous as it aged or less so, but he wasn't keen on finding out, either. 

"How did you know the door was trapped?"  Ralof was repeating himself, he knew. 

"The carvings of people dying in agony as they writhe on the floor that are all over it were an indication."  A wry smile pulled at Wulf's mouth in addition to his dry tone. 

"Oh."  Ralof had missed those, he had been so eager to fid out what lay behind the door.  " _Talos' balls!_ "  Giant spiders, draugr, traps and now poisoned needles.  Ralof wasn't cut for this sort of thing.  Give him Imperials, he'd fight those anytime!  But this... hell, this was the last time he was doing a friend a favour, he thought darkly. 

They walked into the corridor that lay behind the black doors and encountered... another door.  Ralof groaned.  Wulf laughed out at the other man's evident misery.  He stroked the door with the back of hand. 

"Another trap?" Ralof asked wearily. 

"Not necessarily."  Wulf frowned.  "There's magic, though."  He had felt it, even without the touch, but only because his erstwhile Altmer employer had taught him how to recognize enchanted objects. 

Ralof walked up to stand beside Wulf.  The door did not look out of the ordinary.  It was a bit odd, yes, with three rings set in stone and where a handle should have been there were only three close-set hollows. 

"About that magic... "  Ralof really did not want to ask a third time. 

The corner of Wulf's mouth twitched.  "Give me your hand."  He ran Ralof's hand lightly over where he could feel the magic seep out, and at first nothing happened, but then Ralof felt the slightest tingling.  It was similar to when one rubbed hair against a woollen blanket. 

"Feel that?"  Ralof nodded.  "That's... power," Wulf said.  Magical objects usually _leaked_ it. 

"What did the text mean when it said that when you have the Claw the solution is in your hands?" Ralof asked suddenly. 

Wulf shrugged.  "The Claw opens the door, right?"  He motioned for Ralof to proceed. 

The warrior unpacked the golden artefact and admired its fine craftsmanship for a moment.  The backside was etched with three depictions. 

Ralof suddenly laughed out loud.  "A test for the worthy, my ass," he chuckled.  The door was a puzzle.  Simple as that.  His father had carved more complicated ones when Ralof had been little.  He quickly aligned the stone rings and pressed the Claw into the hollow.  The door opened with a grating sound.

Farengar had told Wulf that the dragonstone would lie in the barrow's sanctum, its main chamber.  "At least we left the draugr behind.  There's no way they got past that door," Wulfryk said.  He could not wait to see sunshine once again, to breathe in the fresh, fragrant breeze, and not the damp air of underground, gone stale centuries ago. 

The cave they entered was vast and several brooks trickled through it.  There was also a strong draft, signalling that there was an opening ahead, and light filtered through a narrow ravine.  Bats clung to the dark ceiling and some of the animals took flight when the men approached.  They crossed a delicate-looking bridge that spanned one of the streams and walked up a flight of stairs which were hewn into rock.  Up and ahead a dais with a black alter stood and behind it loomed a carved wall. 

Ralof stopped to inspect the altar, but Wulf walked on, drawn to the wall.  A great statue of a dragon was mounted atop it and next to it, on a short pillar, the stone slab that Farengar had described, lay.  Wulkryk noted all this in passing.  His entire attention was focused on the wall and his legs carried him up the stairs and towards it seemingly on their own.  He thought he could hear a faint chant, but that was probably just the murmur of the water.  The wall was made from solid, black granite and there were runes engraved in it.  Wulf stared at them, transfixed.  One word in particular stood out, because it glowed faintly to his eyes. 

The runes looked familiar in spite of him never having seen anything like it before.  Like a word in a foreign language that he had not forgotten, but could not quite remember, either.  Wulfryk traced the spidery script with his fingers.  He felt like he had returned to a place he had known from long ago, but that place had changed almost beyond recognition.  But it was impossible.  He had never been in Skyrim before, except for maybe when he had been so little, he no longer remembered it. 

Wulf blinked and the spell was broken.  He was staring at an empty wall.  Yet whenever he closed his eyes, he could make out that one word.  The echo of a phrase rang in his mind.  He thought he could see the huge black dragon descend from the heavens again.  It had sat upon a tower, opening wide a yawning maw and...

Wulfryk shook his head and turned away.  Those were not memories he wanted to relive.  He had almost forgotten about the dragonstone.  Now he grabbed it and skipped down the steps, feeling lively knowing that his mission was over.  He was stopped short before he reached the last step. 

 

"FUS RO DAH!"

 

Ralof was kneeling before the altar, investigating a small wooden chest, unaware of the fact that Wulf had already found what they had come here for. 

Except that it was no altar.  It was a sarcophagus.  One they had overlooked. 

The lid shattered from the impact of the words of power, and Wulf watched in a mixture of horror and astonishment as the draugr clawed its way out of its tomb.  Unlike the other walking corpses this one was not wearing armour, but a splendid robe of red and gold that looked magnificent, even though it was faded and full of holes. 

Ralof looked up in surprise, and when he saw the draugr stand and rise up into the air, he scampered backwards, reaching for his axe.  The look on his face was one of shock and disbelief and he screamed involuntarily. 

When the draugr raised its knobby hands, he jumped up and ran for his life. 

Wulf stood right behind the draugr and he had a spectacular view of Ralof darting away just in time, before the draugr's magic hit the place he had been standing in just a moment before.  Now, there was a smoking crater.  The mage's corpse paid Wulf no heed, floating a foot above the ground with its back to the warrior, firing bolt after bolt at Ralof.  The blond sprinted down the stairs, and away, staying ahead of the destructive spells by a hair's breadth. 

Wulfryk's sword was in its sheath and so he did the first thing that came to his mind and hit the draugr over the head with the dragonstone, caving in its head and putting it right back from whence it had come and where, according to Wulf, all dead belonged: namely inside a coffin and not out, wandering about. 

The magic attacks stopped instantly and Ralof sprinted up the stairs, soaked in sweat and shaking.  Wulf tossed him the dragonstone that was now splattered with remains of the draugr's skull, grabbed hold of the wooden chest that stood next to the coffin, and then both hightailed it out of the barrow as fast their legs would carry them, taking the steps at the back three at a time. 

Thinking back to that day, Wulf never remembered much of their panicked flight, except that they suddenly burst out from the barrow through a narrow chasm in the rock.  The bad weather had cleared and it was warm and sunny once more and the heat and light struck them, but they ran on, until their packs became too heavy to run with and the pain in their sides forced them to stop.  Wulf's breath sounded like a bellows as he gulped the fresh air.  He unclasped his pack, tossed it to the ground, and sank down on unsteady legs. 

In the sunshine everything that had occurred seemed surreal, but looking back the barrow looked as bleak and foreboding as ever.  And inside the spiders still lurked, waiting for unwary prey and the dead still patrolled old halls, their eyes aglow.   Wulf shuddered.  He listened to the birds sing, to the whisper of the wind, and dug his fingers into the rich soil, cherishing the smell of grass and flowers and the buzz of insects. 

"That was not my proudest moment," Ralof spoke up sheepishly after a moment. 

"Should anybody ask, let's just agree to tell them the truth," Wulf panted. 

"And what would that be?"

Wulf considered it for a moment and then stated, "I bravely defeated the draugr in single-handed combat while _you_ screamed like a little girl."

"Hey!"  Ralof punched his friend's arm.  He might have screamed, but he had done his part in keeping them alive, if only by distracting the draugr enough for Wulf to brain it.   His gaze swept past Wulf's form to the chest that was lying on the ground.  "What did you take?" 

Wulfryk kicked the chest open without rising from his resting spot and Ralof beheld the sparkle of gold and jewels.  He breathed in sharply at seeing such wealth, but soon his brows furrowed.  "Robbing a grave, that's not right." 

"Feel welcome to return it, if you want.  I'll be waiting right here," Wulf countered. 

"It's just ... it makes me feel... like a robber," Ralof spluttered.  He did not like that feeling one bit. 

Wulf had no such qualms.  He crossed his arms behind his head and lay down.  "Just think of it as compensation... for our troubles," he suggested. 

"That doesn't make it right." 

"Oh for heaven's sake," Wulf sighed.  "Cease your whining, Princess." 

He sat up and rummaged about the chest, before he found what he was looking for, a jewelled diadem that he slapped on Ralof's head.  "Look, there's even something in here for you," he sniggered.  

Ralof still disliked the idea of keeping the treasure, but he liked the idea of going back even less.  Reaching up he removed the headdress, snorted, and placed it on Wulf’s head.  "It suits you better." 

"Damn right it does."  

 

xxxx

 

They found their horses in the place they had left them.  The animals were not happy with being left to fend for their own for so long and they let them graze and drink first. 

Wulfryk was still wearing the jewelled diadem when they rode into the village of Riverwood.  He balanced the chest on the saddle in front of himself.  If Ralof didn't like the riches, he could carry the dusty piece of rock. 

Wulf returned the Golden Claw to Lucan with a word of caution to keep it out of sight and not to mention it to anybody else. Hesplit the treasure from the barrow with Ralof and, on impulse, he decided to invite his friend's family for a drink.  He took a few coins and together they headed to the Sleeping Giant Inn, the only inn in Riverwood.  Wulfryk amused Gerdur and Hod by telling them about the barrow, downplaying the danger quite a bit after Ralof cast him a pleading glance. 

They talked and the mead flowed freely and time passed until Gerdur and Hod excused themselves and left, leaving Wulf who found himself listening and nodding as Ralof explained the finer points of Ulfric's rebellion with the help of three empty mugs.  Or maybe it was two.  Wulf wasn't sure, he was far too busy watching Ralof's four hands moving them around. 

"So Tullius 's the Blackbriar?" Wulf slurred, intrigued. 

Ralof leaned back and surveyed the crockery.  "Be fucked if I know."  He shrugged, smiled crookedly, waved his hand and bellowed, "Delphine, pass the ale!" 

The woman in question scurried over with a full tray.  The trouble with drinking Nords was that it took copious amounts of drink to knock them out.  When the blond's hand slapped her behind, Delphine had to extort every ounce of self-control not to knock out his teeth.  Because she couldn't do that to patrons, no matter how annoying, and these two had coin aplenty and were willing to spend it.  They were good for business and she couldn't wait to see them gone.  At least they had done the job she had urged her contact about. The stone would be safe from Thalmor hands with Balgruuf. One of their agents was floating several miles downstream at this very moment. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Ralof looked after the Breton with a wistful expression. She was old enough that she could be his mother and not for one moment did he seriously consider bedding her, but well, that ass had not lost its curves.  Especially if he looked at it with all the mead he had drunk.  "Been awhile since I got laid," he said mournfully, leaning his chin on his crossed arms.  Wulf patted his shoulder in consolation.  "And now I'm too drunk to get a lass," he whined and turned a beseeching glare on Wulfryk. "Why did 'ya let me get wasted?" 

"Cause I want you all to myself."  Wulf giggled.  He could not let Ralof know he lusted after him. 

Ralof tried and failed to focus his gaze on Wulf.  "Really?" he asked.  After a while of contemplation he added, "I never fucked a man."  He sounded excited at the prospect. 

Wulfryk burst out laughing at his enthusiasm.  If Ralof wanted to experiment, he was more than willing to participate.  He could not help but notice the solid weight of the blond's arm around his shoulders.  His warm, earthy smell. There was one quiet moment in which their eyes met and Ralof's hair was mussed, his face was flushed from the drink and the heat of the fire, and Wulf threw all consequences to the wind and leaned in to brush his lips against Ralof's.  He expected a rebuke, but he was pleasantly surprised when the warrior's hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer and then Ralof was kissing him back hungrily. 

Wulfryk groaned when Ralof's tongue invaded his mouth, pushing past the barrier of his lips.  Their kiss was sloppy, wet and uncoordinated, but it felt glorious and Wulf rested his hands on Ralof's knees, before trailing them up the other man's thighs and finally rubbing the growing bulge between them. 

Ralof suddenly lurched up and, dragging Wulf by his collar, he backed the other man into the next available room. 

Delphine saw the two horny Nords stumble into a room.  "No, wait, that room is already... ," she shouted.  "Bollocks," Delphine cursed, when they paid her no heed and the door closed in her face, followed by the sound of a bolt sliding home.  She gave it a vicious kick.  That's one patron she wouldn't see again. 

Wulf chuckled breathlessly as Ralof pressed up against him.  They fell against the door at all the wrong angles, but it was fine.  It was good, because Ralof's calloused hands trailed under Wulf's shirt, his mouth lapping kisses at his neck.  Wulfryk's own hands worked at the lacings of Ralof's pants.  He was absolutely in no mood for foreplay tonight. 

But he was too drunk to unravel the knots right and when Ralof sucked at his throat, Wulf's head fell back and his eyes closed.  "Get those pants off," he growled at last. 

Ralof complied and Wulf used the break to pull his own shirt over his head.  He grabbed the hem of Ralof's tunic next and admired the broad, flat torso he exposed.  Wulfryk ran his fingers through the golden curls that covered the center of Ralof's chest and tugged lightly.  The blond's only answer was a loud moan, a liquid sound that made Wulf's blood pool in his groin.  He pounced on the other warrior, tackling him to the bed and claiming his mouth once more in a fierce kiss. 

Ralof explored the exposed skin and Wulf regretted still having his pants on, because they restrained his growing erection.  He pulled at the offending garment, able to shuck it off at last after some struggle, cussing vehemently the entire time.  And then nothing mattered anymore, because Wulf straddled Ralof's hips and both gasped from the contact of their heated flesh. 

Ralof once again had a firm grip on Wulf's hair and he yanked on the dark tresses, pulling Wulf's mouth to where he wanted it: his neck and chest, and Wulfryk hummed in pleasure as he sucked on a dusky nipple, making it perk up and Ralof groan wantonly.  The blond worked a hand between their bodies and began to stroke their cocks, lightly at first, but when Wulf pinched his other nipple, Ralof tightened his grip in response.  It was strange and familiar all at once and Ralof honestly couldn't care anymore that it was a man he was sharing the sheets with. 

He grabbed Wulf's ass with his other hand and began to knead it and then Wulf pitched sideways, taking Ralof with him and suddenly they were flush against each other, tangling their legs and rubbing vigorously.  The heat between them intensified tenfold when their bodies became slick with sweat and the first drops of the pleasure to come.  Ralof fondled Wulfryk's manhood and was rewarded with a thrust of the other man's hips.  He returned the favour and before long both were panting happily as their flesh slapped together.  It was rutting; plain, simple, and animalistic. 

Their movements picked up a frantic edge as they neared completion and Wulf buried his face in Ralof's neck as his entire body tensed and the bliss of orgasm washed through him.  Ralof followed soon after when Wulfryk added his second hand to expertly work him, his seed spilling hotly between their flushed bodies. 

For a while they lay stroking lightly, until the last shudders of their climax passed and their cocks became too sensitive to touch.  Wulf's suddenly heavy eyelids drifted shut of their own accord, his rapid breaths slowing down, becoming deep as sleep claimed him. 

"Want me to cuddle you?"  Sex always made Ralof feel mellow.  Wulf let out a huff in response, although he seemed happy to let Ralof hold him.  They drifted off dirty, sweaty and sated. 

 

xxxx

 

Ralof awoke to the the pressing of his bladder.  He was not really alert when he blearily looked at the person he shared a bed with.  His first thought was 'Sweet Talos, she's got a beard!'  Before his mind caught up to his mouth, he blurted out, "Have you always been that ugly?" 

"What?" a deep, unquestionably male voice croaked. 

Ralof laid back and exhaled in relief.  It was just Wulfryk.  At least he had good taste in men.  The blond Nord got up and walked out to relieve himself behind the inn, but it was still too damn early to be up and he was feeling slightly hung-over.  So he made his way back to the bed on which Wulf was sprawled out, kicked off his boots, and crawled under covers. 

Wulf grumbled something in his sleep when Ralof's weight made the mattress dip and jump and even more so when Ralof poked him in the side to have him move and make room for the other Nord, but when Ralof wrapped his arms around his chest, he settled against the other man's warm body with a little sigh of contentment. 

They drowsed off their inebriation and when Wulf finally awoke it was past noon.  He was relieved to see that Ralof was amused by their nightly escapade rather than offended or angry.  "I don't even fancy men," the blond said, with laughter in his voice. 

"If you've never been with one, how do you know that you don't fancy them?" Wulf wanted to know. 

"I thought the fact I never wanted to be with one was an indication." 

Wulf scratched his head and stretched.  "Huh.  Fair enough."  He smiled when the thought struck him that they had probably provided Riverwood with enough gossip material to last the villagers through the next century. 

He was glad they did not part on awkward terms.  Duty separated them, as Wulf had to bring the dragonstone to Jarl Balgruuf and Ralof had a war to fight at Ulfric's side.  They embraced in goodbye on the road, their horses standing ready at their sides. 

Wulfryk patted Ralof on the back.  "Take care, Princess," he told his friend, who huffed in mock annoyance at the nickname. 

"You too, Wulf.  You too." 

They let go of each other and Ralof turned to his mare.  Wulf held the stirrup for him as he mounted up.  Ralof gathered his reins and clucked his tongue at his horse, kicking it into motion.  He covered a few yards and turned.  

"Should you visit Windhelm, I'll be there," Ralof called with one final wave. 

Overall, there was plenty to keep Wulf busy.  But he was going to miss Ralof, he thought as he watched the blond Nord ride away, until his form dwindled in the distance, becoming a tiny speck against the horizon. 

Wulfryk mounted up himself.  Their paths would cross once more, he was sure of that though he could not say how. 

For now, Whiterun called.


	8. BTS

With the Jarl's reward in his pocket and half of the plunder he and Ralof had found in Bleak Falls Barrow, Wulf was a wealthy man. He decided to spend some of the coin on new clothes, since most of his were worn threadbare. He also needed to replenish his stock of arrows. Wulfryk made his way to the Warmaiden, the smithy and shop that a guard had recommended him. He was in high spirits that reflected today's beautiful weather despite one of Balgruuf's sons having asked him if he was here to lick his father's boots. Wulf had listened to the little voice in his head then - a rare enough occurrence - and resisted the temptation to toss the snotty brat into the pool below.

He did not find what he was searching for at the Warmaiden and Ulfberth, a bear of man who certainly looked like he spent all his time at the forge, but in truth only sold the weapons his wife made, gave Wulf directions to a huntsman's shop. On his way out a blade on display caught the warrior's eye. Wulfryk had the sword he had stolen from the Imperial armoury in Helgen, but the weapon he admired was a greatknife of a superb workmanship and so much closer to what he was used to fight with. As a guard Wulf had very seldom had the opportunity to use a double-edged longsword. At first because they were far too expensive, and later because he was better at wielding something familiar. Like this treasure that lay before him.

He really did not need it though, and if he was going to spend an outrageous amount of gold on a weapon, then maybe Eorlund Whitemane would be willing to forge him a blade from that fabled Skyforge Steel? Even Adrianne herself admitted that he was the best smith there was, and additionally the man was hard-pressed for money. It would be worth to give it a try.

Wulf next paid the Drunken Huntsman a visit and the Bosmer proprietor, Elrindir, was proud to show him a full stock of archery equipment. He had more arrows than Wulf could count, and together they selected the ones best fitted to his Imperial bow and its owner.

He was on his way to the tailor, when the thought struck Wulfryk that it had been a long time since he had written in his journal and a lot had happened in the meantime. He would need ink and a quill and so he stopped in his tracks, turned, and walked back to the main market square from whence he had just come.

A bored soldier stood guard next to a building from which a sign with a pestle and mortar and the inscription 'Arcadia's Cauldron' hung. The guard leaned against one of the wooden beams and he had taken off his helmet in the heat of the day, showing a youthful face with russet hair and beard. Wulf approached him with a smile and asked, "Would you know where I can buy writing utensils?"

The man pointed at another building within the market area. "At Belethor's shop, maybe. He's got all sorts of things, though I gotta warn you; he's a sleazy little man. Don't let him cheat you out of your coin!"

"Right." That didn't sound too promising, though so far it was Wulf's only option. "Thanks for the warning," he told the guard and, following a whim, entered the apothecary.

Arcadia was an Imperial woman and to his delight she could provide him with suitable substitutes for the plants that he knew from Cyrodiil, most of which did not grow in Skyrim's cold climate. They chatted about formulas for a goodly while whilst Wulf browsed her wares – until he found a bushel of some brownish things that stank dreadfully of cheese curd gone sour.

"What's _that_?" Wulf asked, pointing a finger because no way he was going to touch any of those.

"Dried giant's toes," the alchemist answered after a brief glimpse in his direction.

Wulf suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the shrivelled, severed appendages and cracked yellow nails that he could now make out and wished that he didn't. "What in Oblivion are they used for!?"

"Worn around the neck giant's toe helps with gum problems and toothache," the alchemist answered in a lecturing tone before enquiring brightly, "Do you want one?"

"Err, no, thanks." Wulf had a hard time thinking of something he wanted less. He paid for the ingredients that were stacking up on Arcadia's counter and left her shop for Belethor's.

The Breton merchant within proved the soldier's words to be true within seconds. When he spotted his customer he leaned over the counter and cried out, "What can I do for you? I buy and sell everything! I'd even buy one of your relatives, if you're looking to sell!"

Seeing Wulf's sceptical look he laughed out, adding, "That's a little joke."

"Trust me, you'd be paying double. Once to get them and a second time for me to take them off your hands again," Wulf muttered. "Have you got ink and quills?"

"Of course," Belethor assured him and ducked under the counter, from where he pulled out a wooden crate and began to rummage around in it.

Wulf fidgeted as he waited, seconds dragging by, until he finally asked, "So, what brings a Breton to Skyrim?"

"Isn't it obvious?" the merchant groused from across the counter. "Why, the wonderful weather and hospitable people, of course!"

Wulf opened his mouth to answer that yes, his countrymen certainly had an odd way of showing their welcome, but he never got a word out.

"Not to mention my great fondness for dragons and petty political power struggles." Belethor appeared from under the counter and slapped the requested goods on the table. "Ah, but without a doubt the most compelling feature of this frozen wasteland is the volley of inane questions levelled at me on a regular basis."

Wulf stared at the man in wide-eyed shock, as the other continued with his tirade. He was not willing to admit it, but he may just have found his match in snarky sarcasm. He collected his goods, paid, and left quickly, before Belethor decided to sell _him_ off.

Wulfryk bought a bowl of late snowberries from the Imperial woman, Carlotta, who tended to a stall with fruits and vegetables together with her daughter, before he left the marketplace.

Belethor's words played through his mind on his way to the tailor. So word of the dragon attack on Helgen had gotten around. Oh, well. The dragons were the Jarl's problem, not his.

The seamstress who opened the door to Wulf's knock was an elderly woman with her greying hair tied into an impeccable knot. She took his measures and Wulf selected the materials he liked. He chose durable and functional fabrics over nice ones. He had no use for finery, but even so he left with his pouch a great deal lighter. It was worth it though, if he ended up with some garments that did not have holes or were patched in a dozen places. One could repair the same tear only so many times.

Lost in his thoughts on his way back to Jorrvaskr, Wulf noticed the man who stood at the base of the stairs and looked up at the Companion's mead hall too late; they collided and the smaller Nord was almost sent sprawling, his hood knocked back to reveal a face that was as red as his hair and looked as if he suffered from severe sunburn. No wonder he kept his hood up despite the heat, poor bastard.

"Sorry." Wulf gave the stranger a disarming smile to make up for his absent-mindedness and noticed something lying on the ground. "You dropped this." He knelt to pick up the silver pendant the man must have let fall and handed it back to its owner. It was shaped like hand and a look of surprise flashed over the redhead's face. He probably expected to be told off for standing in the way of a Companion, not to be apologized to.

"Are you new?" the man enquired with curiosity and pocketed the necklace with a thankful nod.

"Yeah," Wulf replied proudly. "Joined just two weeks ago." He had noticed the man's longing gaze. He had not been the only one to watch the mead hall in the short time that Wulfryk had been back and Wulf decided to share some advice. "I'd try it if I were you, I'm sure they'll take you in, too."

"Maybe... another time," the Nord stammered with evident unease. He looked thoughtful and troubled as he pulled his hood back up.

Wulf shrugged. It was the other man's problem if he could not get up his courage to take that last step. It wasn't that hard, really. He bid the stranger a good day and skipped up the steps that led towards Jorrvaskr, whistling.

Eorlund was reluctant to take his request at first, as weapons made in the Skyforge were for full Companions only and Wulf still had to prove himself, but after an hour of debate Wulfryk managed to change the old man's mind through persistence, cajolement and a clinking purse. He also pointed out that he was more likely to be successful as a Companion if he had a proper blade and not a piece of iron junk of Imperial make, but that he knew there was no work better than Eorlund's. He also dropped a hint that he would hate to support the Empire-loving Battle-Borns were he to commission them.

If the smith had one weakness, it was that like any true master of his trade he took great pride in his work. Wulf exploited that trait mercilessly until the smith finally agreed, probably because it would rid him of the other Nord's company all the sooner.

Happy, Wulf returned to the courtyard and sat on the low wall on the far side of the practice ring, letting his legs dangle over the edge. He ate the snowberries he had purchased earlier. They were sweet and a little tart and he spit the small pits into the river that flowed below, wholeheartedly enjoying a beautiful day full of laziness.

 

xxxx

 

Vilkas had just finished tracking down the former worker of a wealthy merchant who had gone rogue, conspired with some bandits, and robbed his past employer's caravans. The assignment had involved a lot of riding and asking questions; his mark was as slippery as an eel. But Vilkas was a patient hunter. Like his namesake he had tracked down and overcome his prey. Now, after the heat of the day and the dust of the road, he wanted nothing more than a bath to relax in, a cool mug of mead to wet his throat, and to catch up with his shield-siblings. Maybe in the reverse order. He needed a drink more than he needed to smell nice.

Vilkas dismounted at the stables and made to leave his borrowed horse with the stable master. The Companions had an agreement with Lillith, the stable's owner, that allowed them to make use of the animals for a fee. They were honourable folk and none of his shield-siblings would think of stealing one of the horses, and Skulvar always kept at least two around if the need arose for them to travel quickly. It was a useful arrangement, especially as most Companions had no reason to own horses of their own and even less time to actually work them.

It was evening and the animals were already stabled and Skulvar was nowhere in sight, although Vilkas picked up the man's voice from somewhere behind the main building. He walked past the boxes, ready to hand over the reins, when out of one of the boxes a black head shot out and the other horse bit his own poor mount fully in the hind quarter. Vilkas' mare squealed in a mix of surprise and anger and jumped to the side, nearly knocking over her rider.

Vilkas saw the stable master appear and swat a hand at the offending horse, forcing it to retract its head. "Bloody nuisance, that beast," the man muttered. "Must've gotten his bad manners from his master."

"Who'd that be?" Vilkas asked. It sometimes paid off, listening to gossip and keeping track of the troublemakers in the city. After all, they were potential work for the Companions.

"Dunno," Skulvar shrugged. "Some warrior that rode in two days ago. Full of himself, that one. But he paid well."

"Hmm." Thankfully, the man was none of Vilkas' business. He gifted his horse a carrot in farewell. The Divines knew he was no horseman and the beast had shown infinite patience with its rider.

The guards at the gates let Vilkas pass through a small side door without question. The city was closed for the night, but nobody in his right mind would stop a Companion. They were too well known and respected for that. The Nord slowly walked through the empty streets, smelling wood in the smoke that arose from many chimneys. It was a foggy night and at last he saw the shape of Jorrvaskr through the dense mist. At the thought of its warm fires, cosy interior and his fellow Companions all tiredness left Vilkas' body and he jogged up the steps. His spirits soared as he threw open the doors of the mead hall; light and laughter spilling out and washing over him. The first thing the warrior saw was a familiar face with dark hair, blue eyes and war paint. The man looked up when he saw him enter and smiled.

"You." Vilkas groaned, which only provoked a larger grin from Wulfryk.

"Did you miss me?" the other warrior drawled, leaning against the wall in an easygoing way.

Vilkas suppressed a biting retort that would show his annoyance and frustration and felt a wave of appreciation towards Ria when she stomped on the bloody whelp's foot in a way she probably thought was inconspicuous.

He had been overjoyed to see the man in question gone. He had left on some dangerous mission for the Jarl and chances were high he wouldn't make it back. 'And good riddance,' Vilkas had thought. He had wanted to spend a pleasant evening and currently his hopes at having such were being dashed. The Companion straightened and marched into Jorrvaskr, right past the newcomer. This was his home. He belonged here, not that jumped-up warrior from nowhere.

The others noticed his presence too.  It was hard to overlook Vilkas' tall frame. Before he made two steps further, he was pulled into a bone-crushing hug. Vilkas allowed himself a small amused chuckle. Farkas had always been the more affectionate of them, but he still dutifully patted his twin's back. "I'm happy to see you too, brother," he said in a low voice.

Farkas stepped back, his hands still on Vilkas' shoulders and mustered his brother with a critical eye. Assuring himself he was not hurt, no doubt. Farkas confirmed that when he gave a satisfied nod, grinned and said "And in one piece."

Vilkas resisted the urge to roll his eyes. That was something Aela did. He was perfectly capable to look out for himself, but his big dork of a brother would never believe it. It was an issue between them that would never be laid to rest. Vilkas knew he was exactly the same when their roles were reversed. He loved his brother, after all. All eyes were on them and Vilkas suddenly felt somewhat ridiculous for his open display of warmth. They had been here for over twenty years and they were brothers; what was there to gawk at, dammit?!

It irked him how they looked at him, like they knew something he did not. He surveyed the room and waved his greeting to Skjor who had come up from downstairs with Vignar, but upon seeing his friend he walked up to Vilkas.

The older Companion nodded and stated, "I trust the hunt was a success." It was no question.  Vilkas wouldn't be here, if it were not so. Skjor grinned at him and continued, "I'll log it in right away."

Farkas had gone to exchange a few words with Wulfryk who was doing a lot of shrugging and pointing at something behind the big warrior.

"About the Pinepeak job," Farkas suggested, reappearing at his brother's left, just as Skjor retreated to take care of the ledgers. "We could go together. You and me and Wulf. It will be fun!" His eyes were shining with excitement at the prospect of getting to know the other Nord.

Skjor stopped and turned, looking like he had some scathing remark at the tip of his tongue and Vilkas opened his mouth to protest before he actually had thought of something he could say.

Aela saved them both. "No can do, shield-brother," she said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and poked Farkas in the ribs to move to the side and make room for her. "He's coming with me. I need everybody I can get. Balgruuf wants us to clear out the Valtheim towers; there's highwaymen in them again."

"Who are you taking?" Vilkas enquired immediately. The Valtheim towers were a strategically advantageous point of defence with a commanding view of the main road – no easy job, that. At least they could count on the Jarl's reward being generous.

"So far there's Ria, Athis, Torvar, Wulf and myself," Aela counted out. It should be enough and it was a good opportunity to put their newest member's abilities to the test.

"Oh." Farkas looked crestfallen for a brief moment before he cheered up and declared, "We'll have to make good on that another time!" and hurried away.

"Don't."

Vilkas' mouth snapped shut with a faint click of his teeth and Aela chuckled and snatched two pints of ale from the tray a passing Njada was carrying to the table. She handed one to her shield-brother and nudged the brim of his tankard with her own.

Vilkas sighed once the gaggle of people who had beset him disbanded, Companions and whelps going about their way. He grinned at having gotten away from his brother's plan and tried to ignore the knowing amusement dancing in Aela's eyes. Vilkas didn't mind immediately setting out with his brother; one night of rest at home – sleep would be too much to hope for – and then there would be just the two of them taking to the road again. Farkas was always excited to meet new people, he knew, but Vilkas was much less so. He had never had any reason to doubt his brother's judgement of human nature – until now.

Just then Brill announced that dinner was ready, and under Tilma's watchful gaze and with her instruction, Skjor and Athis were making sure that potatoes, beet and meat were evenly distributed throughout the length of the table. When Vilkas moved to take his usual spot he saw that his twin was helping Kodlak upstairs. The Harbinger seldom partook of their common meals anymore, and so it was with great joy that Vilkas greeted his mentor.

Kodlak fell into his seat between the twins. Farkas, stubbornly ignoring the old Companion's protests, piled the food atop the Harbinger's plate which earned an affectionate pat on the head from Tilma.

Kodlak did not talk much, but he had a few words for each one of them. The meal, like most of the Companions' gatherings, was a bawdy, loud affair with everybody talking at the same time, not caring if they had to resort to shouting and if the occasional dish went flying when everybody nearby was too busy to pass it on.

Vignar drilled Vilkas for details about his mission and the Companion indulged the old warrior, used to his longing sighs and many insertions of 'if I were younger' or 'back in my day'.

Eventually the plates were empty and the Companions' bellies and tankards full, and Vignar's attention was claimed by Brill. "Fancy a game of Rusty Swords?" the Nord asked and received a harrumph in answer.

"You going to lose horribly and then say you let me win?"

"Probably," Brill replied with a smile.

"Then you're on!" Vignar accepted and pulled a deck of cards from his coat with a flourish.

Vilkas leaned back to observe his shield-siblings and to listen in on snippets of conversation. Athis was talking to Aela about their mission and how to approach the towers, with Skjor throwing in advice from time to time whenever he wasn't peeking into Brill's cards. Farkas was speaking with Tilma, something that made the old maid smile, and Torvar had apparently tried to fondle Njada's breast, because her fist connected with his jaw with a dull smack.

"Oooh, we could braid each other's hair," Wulfryk's singsong, sweeter than the icing atop the dessert, carried across the table and Ria responded in kind. Vilkas looked up in disgust to see the two of them with their heads together, both well into their cups.

"You should focus on behaving like real warriors and not preening maidens," Skjor growled and earned an elbow in the ribs from Aela who didn't even pause in her explanation of her plan to the Dunmer.

" _Real_ warriors have braids," Wulf countered without missing a beat and Ria choked on her ale, and by the time she cast the balding warrior an apologetic glance over the rim of her mug, he had turned away.

They both heard Vignar grouse to Brill how in his day whelps had shown their betters respect and were not just _a bunch of layabouts and useless whiners who used to know how to fight_ until his friend distracted him by covertly changing the trump card and collecting the stack which made the old man run his fingers through his beard in confusion.

At Vilkas' side Kodlak chuckled softly, as not to turn his laughter into a coughing fit, and the big warrior relaxed again. As evenings went this one was perfectly normal for the Companions.

 

xxxx

 

In the morning Wulf was woken by Torvar and Athis conversing while they were packing. He intimately knew those sounds; the scratch of leather, the rustle of cloth and various other objects being sorted, put down and stored away. And he was pretty sure the Dunmer dropped that pot on purpose and the clamour of iron against the bare stone floor was teeth jarring enough to make him wince and look up.

"Whoops."

Torvar snickered and Wulf's head fell back on his pillow. The three of them were the only people in the dormitory; Njada must have set out with Skjor already and Aela and Ria were undoubtedly up and eating breakfast. Wulf stretched and yawned; he had readied his pack the evening before when he was more coherent. No way was he going back to Jorrvaskr because he had forgotten a spare pair of socks or a whetstone.

The warrior stretched one more time, for good measure, and rolled to his feet, dressed, and left the whelp's sleeping quarters with his pack slung over one shoulder.

Just as he had assumed, the two women were sitting at the table and looked up as Wulf climbed the stairs. Her mouth full, Ria just waved at him cheerfully. Actually, he did not remember a time when the Imperial had not been in high spirits. Aela, already finished, impatiently tapped her foot and asked "Where are the others?"

"Dawdling," Wulf replied without the slightest trace of a smile and helped himself to bread, butter, cold meats, white cheese and two apples. "Athis can't make up his mind about his wardrobe and Torvar is giving him fashion advice."

"That can only go wrong," the Huntress said in a wry tone and turned to her shield-sister who collected stray crumbs and dropped them back onto her plate. "Ria, why don't you help them out?"

Ria left to do just that and Aela's attention turned back to the Companion's newest member. "Not a morning person, are we?"

Wulf grunted in acknowledgement of the obvious and buttered another slice of bread. As much as he liked these guys, in the morning he loved his food more. It didn't _talk_. "How did you figure that out?" he asked after a bite.

"Just a hunch," Aela replied with a small smile and left him to his thoughts after that. Wulf decided then and there that she was a real friend. Some hot brew was boiling in a kettle over the fire, smelling faintly of fruits, and Wulf poured it for them both. It was made of rose hip, sour and refreshing and he was nursing his second mug by the time Athis and Torvar made it upstairs.

The Huntress stood up. "Everybody ready?" She did not give Torvar any time to protest, but said, "Good. Grab a training weapon and let's go!"

While she shouldered her pack, Athis quickly wrapped the leftovers from breakfast for later. Ria was holding open the door and one by one they left the mead hall. Wulf looked around, but there was no sign of the red-haired would-be Companion from yesterday.

"What is it?" Aela asked, noticing his searching gaze.

"There was a man here," Wulfryk replied. "Bumped into him by accident; he was staring at Jorrvaskr like it was a giant sweetroll."

The Companion laughed. "There's always somebody watching Jorrvaskr like that. All they need to do is prove their worth and they have to watch no more."

"That's what I said."

The conversation died down after that, but the silence was a comfortable one. Insects buzzed in the air and Wulf realized what it was that was missing: the song of birds. He noticed the small blue flowers Arcadia had described growing at the side of the road and picked a few. Maybe he'd find the time in the evening to do something with them.

Ria seemed curious so Wulf explained what he knew about alchemy and somehow, an hour later, he found himself telling an entirely made-up story about the hardships of being an apprentice in an equally imaginary academy.

"There is a test, in which you have to determine an ingredient's properties by eating them," Wulfryk said, slowly running out of things to say.

"Ah, yes," Athis threw in with the tiniest of smirks. Smart elf. "We have a similar proving in Morrowind. I hear it is very harrowing."

Wulf shrugged as if it was no big thing. "I got past the whitecap mushrooms and torchbugs," he replied with a smile at the Dunmer for playing along. "Never made it to giant's toes, though."

"Giant's toes?" Ria repeated, her eyes wide.

"Yes," Wulf assured her, keeping his features composed with a small frown between his brows. "Arcadia even has some. You try that in her presence, you have a trip to the Imperial School of Alchemy and Apothecary in your pocket."

Torvar actually looked thoughtful.

"That's a load of mammoth dung if I ever heard any." It had to be Aela to spoil the fun.

"Oh, Aela!" Ria groaned. "You could have gone with it. We almost got Torvar!"

Wulf was surprised, he had thought she was buying his story as well. The Imperial flashed her white teeth and he had to admit, at least to himself, that she had him fooled.

"I hate you all," Torvar muttered from somewhere in the back.

"Got any more stories, Wulf?" Ria enquired, all chipper.

"I'm sorry, Sunshine," Wulf shook his head, "But I exhausted my stock of bullshit for the day."

 oooo

The Companions were astoundingly easy to be with, Wulf found out to his surprise. He would have expected them to be haughtier and, well, stuck up, but they got along just fine. Torvar didn't hold grudges and Athis' wit and dry humour made for great banter, and Ria's innocence was just a facade.  The Imperial was fun to goof around with while Aela watched their antics with an amused expression, though she seldom joined in. It wasn't because she was of higher rank and considered herself above them, the warrior just wasn't the type.

They set up camp early, but there was no time for lounging about. Ria and Athis pulled out their blunted swords and Wulf was watching them warm up when Aela sat down next to him, crossing her legs and resting her elbows atop her knees.

"What are your strengths?" the Huntress asked without further ado.

Wulf gifted her with his most endearing smile. "I take it you're not talking about my charming personality or stunning good looks."

"Damn right I'm not."

It appeared the time for fun was over.

"You see," Aela continued, "Torvar and Ria? They're not the best. They have much to learn, but I know them. I know their strengths and their weaknesses and that I can rely on them to know them too. You?" She raised her hands and let them fall again. "You handled yourself well against that giant, but I don't need somebody dying because you cock it up."

"You don't need to worry then," Wulf assured her, his tone serious. "I don't mess around when I kill."

"Good." She gave him a critical once-over. "I still want to see you fight."

Wulf nodded and joined his shield-siblings for warm-up.

Torvar was the first he went up against. The other man attacked with the unpredictability and wild abandon characteristic for a lot of Nord warriors, but his footwork was sloppy. A foot hooked behind his and a push was all that was needed to send him sprawling. Aela snorted with something that might have been amusement.

Athis was next, and a much more challenging opponent though he only wielded a short sword. He was lithe and quick on his feet and a great dodger. The Dunmer could easily turn the situation around and come in with a quick attack from another side, and Wulf had to constantly watch out to keep him in check. But this kind of fighting put the elf at a disadvantage and when Wulf went on the defensive, Athis had to keep moving to try to get behind the Nord's shield; an exhausting task that he took to with great enthusiasm.

When Wulf barrelled straight into his attack shield-first, the collision and momentum lifted the Dunmer clean off his feet.

To Wulf's surprise, Ria was really good. Her attacks were well timed, proper and precise; her form could have come right out of an instruction manual on fighting. Wulfryk was pretty sure who it was that had trained her though he had sparred with the man only once.

The Imperial woman was used to fighting bigger opponents, she was a good judge of his reach and stayed clear of his shield-side. And she had already seen him fight while he was badly winded and knew nothing of her. If she had gone all in she might have taken him down; but she didn't, erring on the side of caution and eventually Wulf regained his breath.

Ria never overexerted herself, trying to draw him out instead, but she was methodical. She was predictable. Wulf disarmed her when she made the mistake of reacting to his attack in the same way she had to the faint.

"You too?" the Nord asked the Huntress, who was sitting atop a log, no longer frowning. It appeared he had passed the test.

"Another time."

"Thank goodness!" Wulf gasped and let himself plop down. "I don't think I'm up for another one."

"Three Companions bested," Aela mused and Torver's face flushed red. "Impressive. It seems you weren't boasting."

Wulf didn't say what was on his mind; namely that he knew a few people who could have done the same. The Companions were good... but they were not as good as they believed themselves to be. At least, the whelps weren't. Of the higher ranked members he had only fought Vilkas. True, he had fought alongside Aela and Farkas against the giant, but at that moment he had been somewhat too occupied by not being hit by its enormous club to pay any attention to their form.

But, just as Aela had said, Wulf's shield-siblings knew their weaknesses and he witnessed the true strength of the Companions when Aela paired them up. Torvar, big and loud, provided a great distraction for enemies whilst Athis could slip around them unnoticed. Ria's predictability made her an ideal partner for an archer such as Aela, because it meant she wouldn't accidentally run into an arrow's path.

On their way to the Valtheim Towers they kept up their routine of afternoon training, not travelling fast, for there was no need to. The bandits were not going anywhere and they needed as much time as they could get.

Wulf did his best to fit in, to take his cues from Aela and his shield-siblings, all of them who were already well attuned to one another and in most cases it worked out better than he had anticipated. It wasn't the same as it had been with Bronn and Sliveig, En'Sharo or Thrynn, but every group took some time getting used to.

Wulf only had to remember to stay away from Torvar, because somehow the other man always ended up in his way.

 oooo

The day they attacked the outlaws who had taken over the Valtheim Towers, it was sunny but thick white clouds were gathering and the horizon was already darkened with veils of rain. They debated waiting for nightfall but decided against it, as darkness would put them at a disadvantage – there would be no moon to light their surroundings and the bandits already knew the tower's layout. Additionally, if it began to rain there was the danger of slipping on the slick stones of the narrow bridge and plummeting into the river below.

Aela took out the woman on lookout and the Companions stormed forward. Their plan was a simple one: Torvar and Athis would push on, past the bridge if possible, and engage whomever they found there while Wulf and Ria dealt with the outlaws on this side of the river to keep them out of their shield-siblings' backs. Aela was to provide the necessary cover.

A cry went up from one of the watchtowers, but they ignored it, running. Torvar kicked open the doors and Wulf moved in, his shield up, Aela alongside him. A bear of a man awaited them upstairs, and he came down with a bellow, swinging his axe. The Huntress' arrow caught him in the chest and put an end to his charge. Wulfryk knocked him down and left him for one of the other Companions to finish off, his eyes scanning the cramped staircase for the next threat.

"Up," Aela commended tersely and that's where they went.

Wulf caught the flash of movement above and saw the next bandit come running; a twang of a bowstring and he was falling, arrow through the thigh, to die on the Nord's sword. Wulf risked a glance at Aela as she pulled and nocked the next arrow without ever looking down at her hands or bow, the movement sure from years of practice. Damn, but the woman was fast.

He was quite glad to have her at his side.

To their left there was a door and Wulf and Ria went through, and out, into the open, Torvar and Athis continued up. Aela hung back where she could come to their aid.

More stairs and they reached the bridge's level and the higher parts of the first tower. Behind them, Aela aimed at a figure running over the bridge, and a moment later the outlaw stumbled and fell. Wulf did not stay to see if he got up again. A blonde woman engaged him, just at the entrance, to fall back when Ria pushed through the door as well.

Two against one, she did not stand a chance.

Only one bandit was left in a circular room upstairs and he attacked with a bellow that was more of a panicked cry. Wulf's kick caught him fully and probably broke his groin, judging by the wet crunch and the lad's scream that was cut off when the Nord's sword clove through his collar and down to his sternum. The boy could not have been older than sixteen; but he had chosen his way and now he fell, blood bubbling from his mouth and blue eyes already fixed on the ceiling.

Wulfryk felt sick all of a sudden, but he shook it off. That was the way of life. Some made it. Some didn't.

"Let's go." He brushed by a grim-faced Ria and followed Athis and Torvar, the letter whom he could hear. They must have met little or no resistance inside and by now had made it over the bridge. It sounded like they could use some help, though. Halfway there, an arrow whooshed past and Wulf lifted his shield and sprinted to the relative safety of the tower, his Imperial shield-sister right at his heels. It was not one of Aela's arrows – it had come from the wrong direction.

Wulfryk had enough time to register that the lower room was empty before he rushed up. If somebody came up from behind, Ria was there to watch his back. He found the archer upstairs, and the woman was cursing them to Oblivion as she fired. Wulf's hand was knocked into his face from the impact and he tasted blood, but the arrow had only hit his shield. He did not give her the opportunity to try a third time.

The Nord was gulping for air as he stepped on her moaning, curled up form to pull his sword from her guts, already looking around for the next possible danger. She sure wasn't going to join the fight and there would be plenty of time to send her and her dying comrades to Sovngarde once they had all been incapacitated. It was brutal, but effective.

Just then he heard a scream from below.

"Ria!?" Sod it! She had been just behind him a second ago!

Wulf had to watch out on the narrow, winding staircase that he could not get down nearly as fast as he would have liked to. Ria was being hard-pressed by a bandit that towered head and shoulders over her. His swings were wild and sloppy, but he had her backed into the corner and splinters were flying from the Imperial's shield.

Wulfryk could smell the skooma on him from the other side of the room.

Another strike, and Ria's shield, already badly damaged, broke under the man's furious onslaught. She could not get away, hemmed in like that. Wulf's feet touched solid ground the next moment and he threw himself at the guy, knocking him off balance enough for him to take notice of the new addition to the fight. He did not appear to have been hurt though, and Wulf cursed; the bastard was bigger than he was. Damn Skyrim with its damned oversized... everything!

Wulf sidestepped the counter and retreated quickly, while some detached part of his brain noted the gauge the bandit's blade made in the wood of the wall. Ria moved in behind the man to stab him, but to little avail. He fucking hated skooma addicts, crazed maniacs that, whilst under the drug's influence, were nearly inexhaustible and impervious to pain.

The shock that went through the blade when Wulfryk was forced to divert the outlaw's blow to protect himself and Ria, numbed his arm.  Wulf's sword fell to the ground with a clatter. 'He definitely needed a batter blade,' flashed through the Nord's head, as he brought his shield down on the bandit's arm. It snapped beneath the force of the blow and then Wulfryk pushed forward. He could not allow the other man to regain enough sense to lunge for his fallen axe. There was no style to the butchery that followed, no grace, just raw strength and fury and the dull smack that followed each of Wulf's blows. When he put the iron rim of his shield through his adversary's head for the second time, the broken corpse twitched for the last time. Wulfryk bent to pick up his sword, and brushed back his sweat-soaked hair. 

Ria appeared unharmed if tired, and her smile was a bit shaky. "Thank you, Wulf."

"Hey," he panted and smiled back. "Nobody fucks with my favourite Companion."

By the time they made it out, Torvar stood calmly wiping his brow with his sleeve, and he turned and waved when he spotted them. The fight, it appeared, was over.

Wulf had to cleave open the dead bandit's head to retrieve his shield; a messy task for which Wulf used the man's very own axe.

"That was thorough," Aela commented. The Huntress was leaning in the doorway and watching the warrior impassively; he had not seen her coming. "You were not joking when you said you were serious about the killing."

Wulf looked up for a brief moment before returning to the task at hand. "I value my life too much to lose it to sloppiness." He did enough dumb things, the least he could do was pay attention in battle.

The Huntress gave a curt nod in agreement. "You know, I think Kodlak was right."

"Besides, I'm too good-looking to die this young."

"Or not." But there was no rancour to her words. Aela looked around like she saw for the first time where she was. "I guess we might as well spend the night here. We should get inside; it looks like it might rain soon."

The Companions swiftly put down the dying bandits, but left the corpses where they were, or, if it was easier, rolled them off the fort to dump them into the river – the Jarl had paid them for the killing, not the cleanup.

An hour later, when weapons and minor abrasions had been taken care of and everybody had had a change of clothes, Ria and Torvar carried over some firewood. Athis built up the fire in the hearth and they all seated themselves around it. When the Dunmer suggested they tell stories, everybody jumped at the idea. There was a short bustle as food was passed around and ale poured – the bandits had a sizeable stash that would be reduced significantly come morning – and the shield-siblings got comfortable, silence settling over their camp with only the occasional screeching hoot of an owl to be heard over the crackling of the fire.

Athis began and he told a story from Morrowind, of the struggle of a hero called the Nerevarine against the Daedric Prince Hircine. Aela went next and her tale was one of the wilds and the hunt for a fabled white stag, the killer of which was granted a wish.

Wulf decided to use the setting and day's events and chose a classic from Aleswell: the legend of the vengeful spirits of a band of adventurers who had been murdered by bandits. They were rumoured to haunt the old ruin they had sought refuge in for the night, and the villagers all swore to have heard their screams of outrage and hunger when passing the place. Those few brave or foolish enough to investigate had never returned.

Aela and Athis seemed to be enjoying the story, but the Nord had to breathe hard to keep from laughing out loud when he caught Ria and Torvar's eyes nervously scanning the surrounding darkness. When it was time to call it a day, Wulf bid his shield siblings goodnight and chuckled himself into sleep when the two immediately volunteered for night watch.


	9. BTS

They returned to Jorrvaskr victorious and drunk on the feeling of success - and on the mead they had taken with them for the journey back. The mead hall's doors burst open and the Companions filed in, talking, laughing, and making outrageous boasts, each and every one of them.

Tilma clasped her hands in front of her chest and the clatter of the broom that fell to the floor was lost in the sudden onslaught of noise. "Oh dear," the old woman sighed and mumbled something about getting food.

The shield-siblings dropped their belongings off in their rooms and took seats around the table, already tipsy. Like starving wolves they fell on the red meat that Brill served straight from the roast; steaks hot and tender and dripping with juice. Farkas carried a barrel of ale upstairs; the big warrior not one to miss an opportunity to party. His brother made a quick appearance before slinking away; and Aela remembered kissing Skjor in welcome. Somebody had whistled, Torvar maybe. Njada held Athis in a chokehold and Ria swam in and out of focus as she refilled everyone's mug.

Later, once everybody was sated and lazy but not yet sleepy, Athis strung some strange instrument that Aela could never remember the name of and Torvar got his drums and they played one song after another, each faster and wilder than the one before. Farkas manoeuvred Ria over the floor in a dance that looked like a wild mixture between something exotic and a common tavern brawl and followed no pattern that Aela could discern, except that everybody had lots of fun.

Somebody proposed a drinking game and cheers went up. Wulf flirted outrageously with her and Ria and even Athis. He later got a dressing down from a jealous Skjor that he listened to leaned back in his chair with a silly grin plastered over his face that told Aela he wasn't really hearing a single word of what the older Companion was saying.

At some point he had gotten hold of Vilkas' precious ledgers and now the topmost entry told the story of how they had fought and bested a raider horde, taken the fort and held it for twelve days until the last of the bandits were vanquished, as well as Torvar's untimely, yet most heroic demise.

She vaguely remembered standing guard on top of the stairs and distracting the others and grinned. It was the most fun she had had in a long time.

 

xxxx

 

When Wulf woke on the next morning it was not in his bed. He bolted upright and found that the room was spinning. Yes, he was still in Jorrvaskr. The whelps' dormitory? Check. Ria, Torvar, Athis and Njada? All accounted for. Bed? Nope. His own was taken up by his pack that he had left atop it yesterday and he was lying in the one opposite with only a blanket to cover himself with. At least there was nobody next to him; waking up after a night of fun was pleasant enough, but the silence when you could no longer remember that person's name was always so awkward.

Wulf got to his feet, put on some pants and staggered out of the dormitory. His shield-siblings were out cold and he felt like Ysgramor himself when he made into the common room first.

Tilma had brewed some herbal drink and left it for them atop the table. It smelled and tasted minty and Wulf used it to rinse his mouth and get rid of the horrid fuzzy taste from the day before. His stomach rebelled at the thought of swallowing a single gulp and he could only bring himself to chew some dry bread to help it settle. The warrior would have been happy to go back to sleep, except for the smell that hit him when he opened the doors to the whelp's quarters. He immediately changed his plan of action, grabbed his bedding and headed back.

When he came up again, Wulf met Aela who had taken the very place he had occupied a moment earlier and greeted her with a wave. "Gods, it makes me sound old but I don't think I could live through another one of your celebrations."

She cracked a tired smile and sipped Tilma's infusion. Wulf was struck by the realization of how much younger she looked with her fiery red hair mussed up and warpaint gone. "You'll get used to it."

He didn't agree, but his pride would not allow him to argue. Wulf nodded duly and said, "I think I'll treat myself to some fresh air."

 oooo

Wulfryk's plan turned out to have a single flaw. It was pleasantly cool in the shade and the wind was doing wonders to chase away the throbbing in his head. It was the other pounding that he could not escape from, the sound of metal being struck as Eorlund worked away at the Skyforge.

The Nord climbed to his feet again, shouldered his bedding and left. He took the long way around the courtyard when he saw that Vilkas was out there hacking away at one of the dummies. Grumpy was yet another thing he wanted to avoid, especially in the morning.

His feet took him down the stairs and through the city, and if anybody gave the Companion carrying around his bedding queer looks, then the man did not notice them. If not for that annoying priest of Talos, he would have been happy to nap beneath the Gildergreen . Wulf pushed open the doors to the temple and stepped into blessed twilight, the noise from the streets cut off as soon as the doors closed behind him. The air was fresh and cool and the soft sound of water came from a basin in the middle of the arched main room. The priests were nowhere to be seen and there were free beds aplenty. Perfect. The Nord lay down atop one, wrapped himself in his blanket and watched specks of light dance over the walls until he drifted off.

When Wulf opened his eyes it was to find one of the priests glaring down at him. The man had his long black hair tied into a loose ponytail and a well kempt beard that made Wulf want to run his fingers through it - hay might have, if the Nord's dark eyes had not been smouldering. Before the cleric could lecture him, Wulfryk quickly proclaimed that, "I'm terribly ill."

"There is nothing wrong with you that a day of rest will not cure," the priest sighed.

"Are you sure?" Wulf enquired and blinked up, feigning uncertainty. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm going to die."

"We are not a bunkhouse." The other Nord's dark eyes narrowed with displeasure.

"That?" Wulf made a vague motion to encompass his bedding and sat up. "I thought it would be prudent to bring my own. To save you trouble," he clarified, noticing that maybe he should have put on a shirt.

"How very thoughtful." The man's tone had taken on an edge of steel and Wulf knew he was being thrown out.

He promptly decided to drop the act. Pity this was a temple dedicated to Kynareth and not Mara or Dibella. "Do you have something that helps with hangovers?" he asked quickly followed by, "I'm sure the temple could do with a donation." He saw the Nord's eyes light up at the word 'donation' and pushed on. "How about ten silvers?"

 oooo

When Wulfryk returned to the mead hall, Vilkas was no longer training in the courtyard. His brother was there though, sitting slumped in his chair. There were dark circles under the Companion's eyes and his complexion was sallow, but then he had drunk more than anybody else. The big warrior certainly knew how to hold his liqueur and Wulfryk had not expected to see him up before the afternoon.

"Somebody did not drink enough last night," Farkas greeted the other Nord surly.

" _Somebody_ drank more than he should have," Wulf cheerfully shot back and took the seat next to the Companion. " _I_ got healed at the temple by that handsome priest". Now that his stomach was no longer making lazy tumbles he was feeling hungry and helped himself to the fruit basket.

Farkas blinked and a furrow appeared between his eyebrows. "Danica?"

"What? No, the guy. Dark, broody." Wulf cracked a nut and pretended not to notice Farkas' wince.

"Jenssen," the Companion supplied the healer's name. "He must have liked you, then. He stopped handing out cures to the Companions... years ago."

"Oh."

"What?"

"That would explain why he ran me out of the temple, shouting something about drunk layabouts when I told him to put my donation on Jorrvaskr's tab."

Farkas roared with laughter and regretted it immediately after, his hands going to his temples. "Yeah," he chuckled. "We'd pay for them, too. Tilma says we deserve to feel every pint of wretchedness."

"Does she drink a lot?" Wulf enquired.

Farkas was slowly shaking his head before the other Nord had finished. "Not at all."

"Well, that hardly makes her a reliable authority in drinking matters," Wulf stated and wiped his sticky hands on his pants; a bad habit that he had never shaken.

"Oh, and Eorlund wanted me to tell you to pick _it_ up tomorrow," Farkas remembered suddenly. "What did you commission him for?" the warrior asked curiously.

Wulf grinned. "You'll see tomorrow." Farkas grumbled something and went back to nursing his aching head and Wulf clapped him on the shoulder in consolation and headed inside for proper breakfast.

 oooo

The next day Wulf collected his new greatknife from Eorlund, and though it was not of the same design he had admired in the Warmaiden, if possible, it was even better.

"What do I owe you?" he asked the smith, feeling slightly giddy and eager to take up his new weapon. Wulf had taken some of the treasure from Bleak Falls Barrow with him in case the gold he had was not enough. He already flinched inwardly at the price of such a fine piece of craftsmanship.

To his utter astonishment though, Eorlund waved him off. His work was his pride and not for sale like a Suranese harlot. Although it obviously pained the smith, he claimed he had always been forging armour and weapons for the Companions for free. It was a thing of honour. "Take it as a gift, Companion."

Well, that just didn't feel right, taking advantage of the old man like that. One of Wulf's hands disappeared in his pack and he closed his fingers around the object he was looking for. It was the very same diadem he had worn in Riverwood; silver with gemstones the size of small eggs set in a delicate frame. It had to be worth a fortune, but Wulf had never been one to hold onto money. "Your wife sells, trinkets, right?" Wulfryk asked. He had seen Fralia in the market.

The smith's brows furrowed; he was not one for idle talk and obviously wondered where this was going. "Yes."

Wulf dug out the garish piece of jewellery and thrust it into the hands of the surprised smith, before he had time to protest. "A gift for a gift, then."

Eorlund did not answer; his eyes were glued to the ornament that, if sold to the right person, would keep his family fed for months.

Wulfryk picked up his new blade and swung it through the air, marvelling at the low buzz it emitted, the balance and the weapon's graceful curve, so slight it was barely perceptble. He would have to show it off to the other Companions, knowing full well he was grinning like a kid at Mid-Year celebrations.

 

xxxx

 

Wulfryk was right in the middle of swinging his blade in a wide arc, admiring its grace and speed and showing off its perfect balance to the other Companions at the same time. He had never owned a blade this fine and Wulf knew he would never again, should he lose this one. Some of his shield-siblings had assembled in a loose half-circle to indulge him.

Farkas' face bore a patient and somewhat amused smile, as did Aela's. They both had witnessed plenty of newbloods get excited when they first wielded a weapon of Eorlund's make. The feeling was like no other and Wulf's delight was infectious.

'He's going to need a proper blade,' Farkas thought, 'if he's going to be one of us.' He was only surprised at the man's choice of weapon. Given the chance most people would have chosen something more... remarkable.

The simple, unadorned design somehow did not fit Farkas' impression of Wulf. It spoke of a sober practicality that he had not thought his shield-brother possessed. Farkas nodded his approval. The sword had been made for the sole purpose of killing and not decoration, like the toys some noblemen adorned themselves with. Slender, strong and deadly. Farkas' eyes wandered to the man who wielded it. He would have to get to know Wulfryk better, especially now that he had gained Aela's approval.

The gathering was starting to break up and the Companions went about their business again, when Vilkas walked in and, for the second time, saw the tip of the whelp's sword pointed at him. Wulf regarded the big warrior with his head slightly cocked to the side and a small smile playing around his mouth.

"Got a new toy, whelp?" Vilkas greeted the newblood and Farkas moved to intercept is brother; when he and Wulf were left to their own devices an argument usually followed not long after.

Instead of feeling offended Wulf gifted the Companion with his customary grin. "Aye. Careful!" he said, and so quietly, only Vilkas' ears were able to pick up the following words, he added, "It's probably worth more than you are."

Vilkas' eyes narrowed at having his own words thrown back at him. "That's Eorlund's work," he exclaimed in surprise. He would recognise the smith's work anywhere, even if it did not bear the smith's insignia. But the man was a whelp, and not yet a full Companion. He felt the anger rise. "I should have you bring it back."

"Yes, and while you're at it, collect my payment from Eorlund. I'm sure he'll thank you." With a hammer to the head no doubt, but Wulf left that fact unspoken.

Vilkas must have promptly decided that he'd had enough of being 'social' for the day. Without further acknowledging the other Nord's or his brother's presence, the Companion grabbed a bottle of mead from a table and went downstairs, to his quarters where he was greeted by blessed silence.

Farkas watched his twin depart with some bafflement. Through far from open-hearted, Vilkas normally did not harbour such resentment towards anybody but their enemies. Especially not his shield-siblings. Farkas excused himself and followed his brother.

oooo

On the morning of the next day Farkas found Wulfryk sitting on the porch, his feet up on another chair and a large book spread across his knees. He balanced a pot of ink precariously on his thigh as he scribbled away in the pages, brows furrowed. It was a pose the big warrior had seen many times. In fact, it was so reminiscent of his brother, Farkas had to blink twice to make sure that it really wasn't his twin sitting there.

If the two men but talked to each other, he believed they might find some common ground, but Vilkas was irritable and downright hostile and Wulf reacted badly to provocation. They should get along, though. After all they were shield-siblings now and Farkas would like nothing more than to drag them into a room by their hair and knock their heads together. Afterwards he would tell them they would only be allowed out if they made up. It might work. Or it would leave Jorrvaskr in ruins. Much as he desired peace, Farkas was not willing to risk his home.

Anyway, he couldn't force his brother to like somebody against his will. Their talk yesterday had not been very revealing, either. The only thing Farkas had been able to get out of his twin was that Vilkas did not like their newblood because of a gut feeling and his attitude. Vilkas had talked around it, of course, but that was what it boiled down to for Farkas. He had not pushed the matter, knowing his brother was tired and being entirely unreasonable. Wulfryk seemed to get under Vilkas' skin like nothing else.

Farkas looked at the man. He thought Wulf was a nice guy, really. He was always in good spirits, willing to have a drink with the other Companions, and easy to talk to. All that initial awkwardness between them had evaporated and he and Farkas were becoming fast friends.

And though Wulf was just a whelp as of yet, Farkas had few doubts he would be put to the test soon. He had proven he was a capable fighter on the missions he had been sent on, and with Aela to vouch for him he would become a full Companion before long.

When a big shadow blocked out the light, Wulf looked up. "Hello, Bright," he grinned up at the big warrior. It was just the two of them and Kodlak in today, everybody else was out. In Jorrvaskr there was a continual coming and going as people left on assignments, came back, left again, and so on.

"Hello, Wulf. Whatcha doing?" Farkas asked, because he did not know what else to say. He was reading. It was quite obvious, really, but Wulfryk never commented on it whenever Farkas said something stupid. It was another thing the big warrior liked about his fellow not-yet Companion.

He did know how to read, Kodlak had made sure of that, although he had learned reluctantly. Of the two of them it was Vilkas who loved the books. There. Another thing his stubborn brother had in common with Wulf.

Wulfryk corked his ink bottle carefully, making sure none of the precious liquid would spill, before he took his feet off the second chair and mentioned for Farkas to take a seat next to him.

"Writing in my journal," he offered as an explanation. "Want to have a look?"

Farkas was not sure whether he did. Wulf's tight, neat script already made his eyes ache. But when the warrior opened the book at the beginning, he saw big, disorderly letters strewn across the pages, blurred, smudged and with ink and finger dots strewn in between. Farkas grinned. He knew that sight very well.

"I was two-and-ten, then," Wulf said somewhat sheepishly. "Let's look further ahead." He leafed through the book until he came to a section with loose sheets. Farkas stared. There, depicted on the paper were the most beautiful drawings he had ever seen.

"Did you draw these?" he asked, in awe.

"Divines, no!" Wulf laughed. His own scrawly sketches looked ridiculous next to the masterpieces of art. In time he had become better at drawing too, but he would never even come close to what Gergio could do.

"A friend of mine did these. He was an artist, travelling Tamriel for commissions. When he got one, he was so rich, he could have lived off the money for the rest of his life. But somehow he always managed to blow the coin within weeks and was left virtually a beggar. He painted for me when he was not able to pay me in coin. I was his bodyguard," Wulf clarified. He had also been the man's lover, but he doubted Farkas was interested in that detail. It had been much safer work than when he had been in the employ of the Altmer wizard, though he broke off the liaison after a couple of months as the Imperial had already been in a well-established relationship with drink and bad decisions.

"Look here."

They spent the rest of the day leafing through Gergio's work. Some pictures were simple drawings of only a few lines, but even so they looked absolutely stunning. Buildings, cities, people, animals, plants - there was nothing the artist had left out. There were rough sketches that perfectly captured the personality of whomever Gergio had decided to draw. Others were more complicated; portraits and breath-taking landscapes. Wulf even had quite a lot in colour and he had a story to accompany each and every one.

Farkas could only think about how much Vilkas would love to see this. His brother was constantly reading about foreign countries, exotic places far away that he wanted to visit. Wulf had been there. He would be able to tell his brother whether all those tales really were true. But Vilkas was not on speaking terms with Wulfryk. It was a pity, really.

Farkas' backside had gone numb hours ago. He did not think he had ever spent such a long time sitting still, when his hands came across something that made his breath catch. It was the painting of a scenery that could have been Skyrim. Wulf said that it wasn't, but the snow-capped mountains, the dense firs that grew on their slopes and the band of an icy river glittering in the sun's setting rays was the perfect image of Farkas' home. He stared at it for long minutes, until Wulf took his journal from Farkas' hands and for the first time in his life, the big warrior was sad to see a book gone. He watched in bewilderment as Wulfryk gripped the book and ripped out the page, handling it to him. "You like it, you keep it."

Farkas would hang the picture in his room, opposite the bed. Though each Companion had done their best to make them homely, the underground rooms seemed cold and uninviting at times, but now Farkas would be able to wake up and fall asleep to the view of lofty mountains and green woods. He could almost smell the fragrance of the trees and feel the biting cold breeze stir against his face. He could not wait to show Vilkas.

 

xxxx

 

Vilkas hated the newblood with a passion. That puffed-up, arrogant... windbag. He had been in Jorrvaskr for half a year now and the seasons had turned from spring to summer and soon they would turn again, and with every day that passed the Companion's hopes of being rid of the whelp were dashed anew.

Bring a capable warrior should have elevated him in Vilkas' eyes, but instead the whelp's presence grated on the Companion's nerves, a constant reminder of the day they had sparred in the courtyard. Of how he'd been humiliated in front of the others. He was by far not the only one to land on his behind in the training ring. The cocky Nord might be an outrageous liar; but damn, did he know how to fight - even if he did so without honour, his 'style' a wild, erratic blend of forms. It was highly suspicious that a common hireling, a _caravan guard_ without an illustrious name to himself would be able to beat Jorrvaskr's best on a regular basis. The Companion wondered, not for the first time, what Wulfryk was hiding, or who he really was.

Nobody else seemed to mind or care though and Vilkas' loathing was only increased by the fact that the whelp had half of the Companions wrapped around his finger. Athis, Torvar and Ria had all become members of Wulf's club of followers. They only lacked little badges to identify them as such.

Worse by far was that he had also managed to snare Aela and Farkas. His own brother, Vilkas knew, was no great thinker. His strength was in his brawns, not his brains. He could be a terrifying foe on the field of battle, but he was also open hearted to a degree that made him naive and vulnerable. Farkas made friends easily and got along with just about anyone except for Arnbjorn whom he had hated at first sight.

No, Vilkas was far more disappointed in Aela for succumbing to the whelp's charm. And all it had taken was for the newblood to compare her to some predatory cat of the south. Seriously? How gullible could one be? She should know better, but Aela had strutted around with her chest puffed out for a day afterwards.

Njada hated him too, but that was not really telling, since Vilkas could not think of one person she actually liked. Vilkas' only consolation was that Skjor seemed as suspicious of the whelp as he himself was.

"Wish somebody'd wipe that smirk off his face," Skjor had growled. They had talked and the elder Companion had admitted he didn't like the newblood's smell as well. So Vilkas wasn't imagining things. There really was something off with the man. Skjor was also quite irritated by how close Aela, who also happened to be Skjor's lover, and Wulf had become.

Vilkas looked over to the corner of the room where the two of them were sitting rather closer than was appropriate, their heads together and whispering.

Whenever somebody passed by, they would stop, look up and stare at that person until he or she moved along before continuing. If that wasn't suspicious behaviour, Vilkas didn't know what was. He did not know whether he should feel relieved or worried that Aela was involved. She wouldn't let herself be talked into something stupid or dangerous... would she? Vilkas shook his head. Of course not. He trusted his shield-sister. She was one of the most level-headed persons he knew. If the whelp was planning something that might harm the Companions, he was sure she'd intervene.

Vilkas jerked violently when he heard a teasing voice next to his head. He had not seen Aela get up and walk over, he had been so lost in thought.

"What's wrong, Grumpy?"

That again! Wulfryk had called him by that blighted name and it had stuck. So now Vilkas had a nickname. A bloody nickname! Nobody had ever had the guts to call him anything the like to his face.

His eyes flitted to the room's corner, but there was no sign of the man. So his and Aela's little meeting was over.

"Nothing," he answered, irritated that Aela had caught him off-guard.

The Huntress was not named such in vain, however; she was stealthy like a cat. And completely unfazed by his gruff tone. She was older than the twins and she knew Vilkas got defensive whenever he was embarrassed. Probably because he had been caught staring. "Out with it," Aela prodded at his chest with a finger. "You've been sulking in this corner for the past hour, Grumpy. Don't try to deny it."

"I'm not sulking and don't call me that!" Vilkas hissed.

"Why not?" she asked innocently. "It fits. Though maybe I should suggest we change it to 'Broody'."

"Just... don't," Vilkas sighed. Did he really need to clarify? The whelp called him that to spite him. "It's disrespectful," he said, "And he does it to annoy me."

 oooo

Just like all the other small things. On the outside most of their interaction was courteous enough, but it was laced with enough barbs to verge on scornful.

"I don't know why Kodlak tolerates your little escapades," Vilkas had hissed one day when he had caught Wulf on his own, a rare enough occurrence. When the other man wasn't surrounded by his shield-siblings, they often went to great lengths to stay out of each other's way.

"You're not still upset over that ledger, are you?" Wulf had replied innocently. "It's all numbers and dates; the thing needed a dramatic touch. Kodlak certainly agreed, didn't he?"

The old Harbinger had laughed when Vilkas had complained and asked the Companion who he did think put in _one-hundred and one_ Orc berserkers into the account of his and Skjor's heroism. Like all good tales, that one had profited from a bit of embellishment.

Or like the one time he and Vignar had had a falling out over Wulfryk's sword. The old Companion had been beside himself to find out that a weapon of Skyforge Steel had been given to a whelp and Vilkas tried not to show any satisfaction as he sat close enough to listen in on the argument, glad that somebody else shared his opinion as well.

"I don't know how things are where you are from," Vignar said, shaking a rheumy finger in the dark haired Nord's face with a dour glower, his tone indicating clearly what he thought of some redundant mercenary washed up at their doorstep, "But here-"

"Where I come from we don't let friends live on the brink of poverty while hosting parties every other evening," Wulfryk had replied without missing a beat and what raked most was that his words carried some truth in them.

Or when he had overheard how the Old Grouch and he were a match made in Oblivion.

 oooo

"That's not true," Aela countered, and all the big warrior could do was grit his teeth. If they did not want to see, he could not make them. "And Wulf has names for everybody, not just you. For heaven's sake, he calls Athis 'Punchbag', and do you see the elf getting all riled up about it?" the huntress asked. She thought it was rather droll. Maybe it was a good thing Vilkas had not yet heard Wulfryk's newest moniker for Skjor. "It's just a bit of harmless fun," she added, knowing her shield-brothers would never see it as such.

"Anyway," Aela said, waving aside their argument, "I wanted to tell you that Kodlak wants to see you."

"How do you know?" Vilkas asked. He had not seen her talk to the old man at all.

Aela rolled her eyes, glad the big warrior could not see it. It was a habit she had never gotten rid of. "He told Wulf," she explained in a patient tone, "And Wulf told me."

"About that," the Companion suddenly burst out, "What are you talking about all the time?"

"Later," she told him firmly. "Kodlak is waiting."

Vilkas growled, but he knew he would get nothing more out of her right now. Aela clapped him on the shoulder and left, leaving the Companion to his thoughts. With a shake of his head Vilkas rose and went in search of the Harbinger. He found the old man in the training yard, looking over the wide plains that surrounded Whiterun.

Vilkas approached his friend and mentor, leaning against the wall as well. "You called for me, Kodlak?"

"Ah, yes." Kodlak did not continue immediately though and Vilkas waited in respectable silence, until the old warrior finally went on, "I have received a missive from a noble family."

So there was another job awaiting him. Vilkas nodded his consent.

"An old, invaluable family heirloom was stolen by their youngest son-in-law. He has brought the axe to a hideout in the foothills of the Anthor Mountains and is requesting ransom. Instead, the family prefers to pay us." Kodlak turned to the young Companion. "I'm sending you to retrieve it. The only objective besides the obvious is that no harm is to come to the thief. He's the bad egg of the family, but they do not want him injured. His hirelings though... ," Kodlak gave a small shrug and Vilkas grinned fiercely. They were fair game.

"You will leave after the Mid-Year celebrations; I'm trying to have everybody in the house for the festival." It was Kodlak's next words that made Vilkas' heart sink and a groan escape him involuntarily.

"And take Wulfryk with you."

By the time Vilkas made it back to Jorrvaskr, he had completely forgotten Aela's promise to tell him about whatever it was she was acting so secretly about.


	10. BTS

Wulfryk carefully looked left and right, assuring himself that the courtyard really was empty before he crossed it hurriedly to meet with his fellow conspirator. 

It was a rainy day and unusually cold for summer.  The preparations for the Mid-Year festival had been interrupted as the bleak weather had plunged the entire city of Whiterun into a state of drab lethargy.  Everybody had been driven inside by the chill, where the blazing fires drove out the damp and cold.  Even the training grounds of Jorrvaskr were deserted.  There was no ring of steel as swords clashed and no shouts of encouragement rang out.  The Companions had forgone practice in favour of warming themselves at the mead hall's many open and roaring firesides, with the help of copious amounts of alcoholic beverages, no doubt. 

All except for two, that was.  Wulf brushed back his hood when he reached the roofed terrace and ran his fingers through his clammy hair. 

Aela was leaning against the wall with one foot back for support as she twirled around an arrow out of boredom.  Still, she was glad that it had not been her out there in the rain.  They had drawn straws as to who would get the job done and Wulf had lost. 

"How did it go?" the huntress asked her friend who busied himself with shaking water from his cloak of heavy oiled leather. 

"Good," Wulf answered.  "We got what we wanted."  His success was the only thing that kept up his good mood. 

Aela beamed and clapped the warrior on the shoulder.  She put away the arrow she had been toying with and pushed away from the wall.  "How about we get us warmed up?" she suggested.  "First drinks are on me," Aela added with a wink. 

Wulf smiled broadly "I could use a drink."

He spread out his cloak and they both huddled under it, as they jogged through the downpour to the Bannered Mare, an inn run by Hulda. 

The tavern was a popular gathering place and busy though not yet crowded and they got good places close to the fire.  Aela hung up the mantle while Wulf walked up to the bar to order their drinks. That done, he noticed two people at a table close to theirs and made sure to greet them on his way back.

He had recognized the priest, Jenssen, and the woman who sat beside him. Though the head priestess seldom left the temple, she was a well-known figure in Whiterun. "I thought you disapproved of drinking," Wulf chatted up the man and spared a smile for Danica.

"M-hmm," the priest hummed in affirmation despite the tankard in front of him and turned his head without lifting his chin from his hand. "Alcohol is a poison."

"And you are a healer," Wulf retorted. "How very convenient."

He received a lopsided shrug in answer and an invitation to sit with them, Jenssen pointing to the empty bench opposite. Another time Wulf might have joined the priests, but today he and Aela had a plan that needed discussing and he thanked them and, with some regret, declined the offer.

"I guess I'll see you around." He didn't visit the temple for prayer, but sooner or later he was bound to land there with an injury.

Another hum, then, "Don't come to me if you overdo it today."

Wulf snorted and sat down opposite the Huntress with a chuckle, making himself comfortable and stretching out his long legs towards the warmth of the fire. 

Aela didn't ask what their brief exchange was about though she appeared amused by it. She and Wulf could have gotten drunk in Jorrvaskr, but the mead hall was no longer a convenient place to plot.  The other Companions had all begun to notice their meetings and even Torvar was slowly growing distrustful at their behaviour.  And he wouldn't normally notice 'suspicious', unless sober and unless somebody walked up with a giant plaque and hit him over the head with it.  So Wulf and Aela had chosen other places, one of them being the Bannered Mare.  The tavern was neat and cozy enough and the ale was equal in quality to that of the Companions. 

After a short while Hulda arrived with a tray and handed them two steaming mugs of northern mead.  Wulf gratefully wrapped his hands around the warm tankard and Aela gingerly sipped the hot liquid.  It warmed a person from the inside, like no fire could. 

"So... ," Wulf began.  "Want to go over the list again?" 

Aela nodded. "It can't hurt to make sure we haven't forgotten anything." 

"Alright," Wulf replied.  "We have Kodlak covered," he stated. 

"Farkas and Ria too," Aela added, using her fingers to count out the persons. 

Wulf thought for a moment before resuming, "And I have taken care of Vilkas and Torvar."  He sipped his drink as well and let Aela have credit where it was due. 

"Njada and Athis," the huntress listed.  "That makes seven of our fellow Companions." 

Wulf suddenly groaned loudly and his head sank on his crossed arms on the table.  He looked pitiful as he blinked up at Aela through his wet strands of hair.  She just raised an eyebrow in question.  "Skjor," her friend said sounding miserable.  "We've forgotten about him." 

Aela's grin turned outright predatory at the thought of her lover.  She had not forgotten.  "Let me worry about Skjor," Aela practically purred. 

Wulf raised his head in evident relief.  "Are you sure?" he asked, mostly out of courtesy and because they were running out of time.  Judging by the look on Aela's face though, she had things well in hand and he probably did not want to be involved in whatever it was she had in store for the man. 

With Skjor being the last one, Wulf and Aela had finished all the preparations.  The two conspirators couldn't help but grin at each other in mischief.  Actually, they couldn't wait to see the looks on the other Companions' faces when they finally made their move, either.  Wulf raised his mug in a toast and Aela knocked hers against his. 

"On us," she said.  "I think we deserve it." 

They drank and talked and eventually they ordered another round.  The crowd had grown considerably in the last hour and snippets of conversations reached their ears. There were the usual discussions about the weather, the grumbling about how the crops were suffering in the cold, and the complaints about work and spouses as well as the latest rumours: Olfrid breaking a leg in a nasty fall from his horse and the Jarl's youngest son being the most popular topics.

Wulf was just listening in on a palace guard saying how he could not believe how much the boy had changed over the past year, and for the worse, mind you, when the doors to the inn opened once more and a cold gust of wind was let in.  Heads turned as the patrons looked who had joined them this time and soon the whispers began. 

Wulf craned his neck to see as well and nearly choked on his drink.  "Oh, come on," he moaned, "What are the bloody odds?" 

Aela looked up just in time to see him hunch over and slide down the bench, as to make himself a few inches smaller.  There, towering above everyone else and making their way towards them, were the twins, their fellow Companions.  Aela swore.  They had come here to get away from their shield-siblings.  'Couldn't they have stayed in Jorrvaskr and drank themselves into Oblivion?' she thought gloomily. 

It was a good thing the brothers were so tall, it made them stand out all the more.  They had not yet spotted them, but it was just a matter of time.  Aela's eyes made contact with Wulf's and an unspoken message passed between them.  They were just two friends out for a drink.  Nothing unusual about it.  The hard part would be to make Vilkas believe it.  If he found out what they had planned it would ruin the whole fun.  Maybe Wulf could distract him enough to forget.  Aela faked a look of clueless cheerfulness as she turned to the approaching Companions. 

 oooo

Vilkas was glad to be out for a change.  Although Jorrvaskr was his home and in fact, he had never known another one, at times it could get stifling inside the mead hall's stone walls.  It was good to leave now and then, even if it was only for an evening in the Bannered Mare; and to escape the people, most of whom he thought of as family.  That's usually when he went on a mission, but there were none now due to the weather and the imminent celebrations and Jorrvaskr was as full as was seldom the case.  The Companions' constant closeness and the arguments that ensured as a consequence got on his nerves and every so often he needed a break.  The only exception from the rule was his twin, who accompanied Vilkas on this very evening. 

Farkas' voice suddenly ripped him out of his thoughts.  "Look, there's Aela!  And Wulf!" 

Vilkas jerked and cast a glimpse in the direction his brother was looking.  "I don't think... ," he began, but never finished, because Farkas wasn't listening and instead the huge Nord barrelled his way through the crowd, until he reached Aela, who waved at him. 

"Hello, Farkas," she said and when she saw Vilkas follow she inclined her head. "Vilkas".  

He narrowed his eyes at her.  So they were back to using names again, were they?  What had happened to 'Grumpy' and 'Bright'?  Aela liked to tease and suddenly she was playing nice, probably because she did not want to irritate him.  Which meant she was hiding something. 

Vilkas knew he was more likely to pry something out of her if he acted as if he was unaware of her sudden change of attitude and he took a seat opposite her, smiling friendly. 

"Hello, Aela," he greeted his shield-sister and bit out, "Wulfryk," without looking in the whelp's direction. 

Thankfully, Farkas had the newblood occupied, drawing him into an animated debate about the advantages of two handed weapons versus sword and shield... or something like that. 

Vilkas had to admit, he had been full of trepidation at the idea of sharing a table with the whelp, weary of yet another conflict, but the evening turned out to be rather pleasant to his surprise.  Wulfryk was busy talking to Farkas and he paid Vilkas and Aela little heed.  From what he could make out over the general clamour of the tavern, they were now discussing the celebrations and what Kodlak was planning for Mid-Year. 

Vilkas only wished people would finally shut up about the damn festival.  It was all everybody talked about anymore and yet there was nothing novel about it.  One year was much as another; nothing ever changed. 

He turned his attention back to Aela who said, "I heard about the new job Kodlak has for you."  There, that was an interesting topic.  The huntress resumed. "Not allowed to kill the thief, eh?"  She clucked her tongue and took a swallow. "Pity."  By now their table was lined with empty mugs and the mood was rather jovial. 

Vilkas shrugged in nonchalance.  "That's no loss, really.  By now I believe I have killed one of everything in Skyrim," he said instead.  Smart-assed troublemakers were on that list as well.  Vilkas hoped the whelp would get the message.  He was onto them. 

Wulf abruptly stopped mid-sentence and stared at the big Nord.  Farkas looked from his brother to his friend, who had obviously taken Vilkas' words as a challenge.  He tilted his head to the side and asked, "Even a troll?" 

"Aye." 

Wulf lifted his mug in a silent toast.  "A mammoth?" he enquired further and Vilkas nodded. 

Wulfryk seemed impressed, but nonetheless there was a nasty spark of amusement in his eyes that did not bode well and after a while he finally asked, "Have you killed a _dragon_?" 

Farkas saw Aela cast him a pleading look that clearly said 'do something!' but he could not think of anything and besides, dragons were _fascinating_.  But why did Wulf mention them? 

"A dragon?" Vilkas scoffed.  "What nonsense is this?  Dragons went extinct in the ancient times."  He took a big gulp of ale and turned away, to his brother who opened his mouth to protest that no, he wanted to stay longer and talk about dragons. 

Wulf beat him to it.  "And they have come back to life a couple of months ago," he replied heatedly.  "Helgen wasn't destroyed by a bunch of frenzied reindeer." 

Vilkas' eyes glinted coldly.  "So you have been to Helgen," he said in a deceptively calm voice.  "What were you doing there?" 

Bollocks!  Of course the Companion would know about the dragon attack.  The alcohol had muddled Wulf's mind enough for him to blunder right into Vilkas' trap, who was now smiling smugly, waiting for an explanation. 

He didn't have to wait long. 

Normally, Wulfryk was a master of codswallop and could spin a yarn out of the dullest, most ordinary tale.  The dragon though was a serious matter, not a source of amusement.  And most frighteningly, it was real. 

Still, Wulf put on a look of innocence and asked Vilkas, "Didn't you know?  General Tullius had managed to capture Ulfric Stormcloak and the Imperials were about to execute him; put an end to the rebellion.  They had them all lined up to the block and ready to start chopping.  I happened to be close and came to watch.  That's when the dragon attacked.  Ulfric and his soldiers got free and fled and as for me – I didn't wait around to see Helgen burn to the ground, either."  He ended his account with a shrug and another mouthful of ale. 

But Vilkas was not so easily fooled. "You're lying," he said softly. 

Well, there was no use denying it.  Wulf nodded, rose and said, "Yes, and I'll leave you now to figure out about which part." 

oooo

He left the tavern shortly after, settling his tab first and Vilkas was left gaping after him.  Apparently he had hit a sore spot.  He should feel some satisfaction from gaining the upper hand in an argument with the whelp, so why was there this sense of unease?  He shrugged it off and turned to the remaining people. 

"What?" Aela cried as two identical pairs of eyes stared at her.  It wasn't her fault Vilkas had provoked Wulf, nor that Wulf took up the taunting so eagerly.  Only, now there was no way for her to escape Vilkas. 

"You're planning something," the Companion stated.  

"No," Aela lied bluntly and hid her face behind her mug. 

Vilkas was preparing himself to launch another line of questions, but thankfully Farkas intervened.  Whether he did so because he was oblivious to the impending argument or in order to prevent it, Aela could not say.  Sometimes it was downright uncanny how the big warrior, whom all made fun of because of his supposed lack of brains, could assess a situation so quickly. 

"Do you really think the dragons have come back?" Farkas asked, a note of concern in his voice, despite his evident excitement. 

"The Jarl believes so," Vilkas responded.  "As does his court wizard." 

Aela nodded. "There have been sightings," she threw in.  "Not only in Helgen, but also in Riverwood and a few smaller settlements in the surrounding mountains." 

"And do you know who bore the tidings from Helgen to inform our Jarl?" Vilkas enquired further.  He pointed at the place that the whelp had vacated moments ago.  "You really believe it's a coincidence that he had been in Helgen when a dragon appeared out of the blue and the Empire almost managed to put an end to the war?  That he just happened to be there and a week later he's at our doorstep?  You don't think it's strange that he's the only one who survived Helgen who apparently has no part in the civil war and no ties to Skyrim at all?" 

"No, Vilkas," Aela sighed heavily.  "Or are you saying that the dragon is following Wulf?  Or that he summoned the beast, maybe to help Ulfric escape?"  She wrinkled her brows and shook her head. "Come on, even you have to realize how silly that sounds.  And if he did help Ulfric escape in other ways... remember that the Companions take no part in the civil war." 

Much as he disliked the whelp, Vilkas had to admit that the idea was too outlandish to be true.  Well, he could not put the blame for all problems at the newblood's feet.  And Aela was right.  The Companions only required the loyalty of their members towards each other; former allegiances were of no interest to them and besides, there were plenty of Stormcloak sympathizers in Whiterun.  If the whelp supported Ulfric's rebellion then it was a relatively harmless secret, Vilkas thought, although it could become an issue as Jarl Balgruuf was obviously on good terms with the Empire.  Vilkas doubted though that anybody would dare to touch the Companions. 

His brother mistook his long silence for something else. "Looking forward to slaying a dragon, brother?" Farkas asked. 

Vilkas frowned as his musings were interrupted.  "I don't know."  The thought certainly was... intriguing.  "Dragons are dangerous," he began slowly.  Their lives were full of dangers, but dragons were a threat beyond anything Skyrim had faced in centuries.  And there was another fact they had apparently forgotten.  "The legend says only the Dragonborn can kill them," Vilkas reminded them. 

Suddenly Farkas grinned in his typical ice-brained manner and loudly declared, "I do love a challenge!" 

Both Vilkas and Aela shared a look of mutual suffering.  They would have to put their beloved shield-brother in chains to prevent him from going up against one of the monstrosities.  Their former quarrel was already forgotten. 

 

xxxx

 

The Companions were assembled in the main hall, waiting for stragglers and for Kodlak to hold his annual speech.  Outside the revelry was in full swing.  Everybody from the Jarl to the lowest farmer and even the beggars celebrated Mid-Year.  There were stands with all kinds of foodstuff and the hawkers cried out loudly in praise of their wares.  In the streets artists performed and later there would be dances and fires and a drinking bout; they were Nords, after all.  The air was fragrant with the scent of pies that many of Whiterun's households had baked and which were now cooling on the window ledges.  From time to time a bold child would grab a slice and make off with it, followed by outraged shouts.  It was all part of this special day. 

The turning of the seasons was not a reason for merriment for most and indeed in other countries the celebrations were less joyous and more subdued.  Only the Nords as a nation were crazy enough to celebrate the coming of winter.  It was their way of shouting out their defiance for the entire world to hear, of showing that the cold season that was dreaded by others was a part of them and that they would keep going, regardless of the elements in this harsh land, as they had done for so many centuries already. 

Vilkas snapped out of his daydream when Ria entered the mead hall and waved happily.  She had been charged with overseeing that Jorrvaskr would not run out of mead today and to that purpose she had visited the local brewery.  The Imperial woman was greeted by a chorus of shouts and cheers and then she made her round, hugging all her fellow Companions and wishing them a merry Mid-Year, as the others had already done before.  Vilkas watched her progression and when it was his turn he patted her back, as she threw her arms around him. 

Farkas' hug lifted her clean off the floor and Ria shrieked, "Ow, my back, you numbskull!" as he squeezed her, but she was still in one piece when his brother set her down and both had huge smiles.  Vilkas only wished he could be as carefree and enjoy the occasion without reservation. 

Ria hopped away again and shouted "Wulf!" 

"Ria!"  Wulfryk hollered right back. "How is my favourite Companion?"  The words might be directed at her, but Vilkas noticed that the whelp's eyes slid over to him and that he winked.  Vilkas had deliberately kept away from him as he stood at the other end of the hall with his brother at his side.  And then Ria was done and the room grew quiet all of a sudden, and Vilkas tore his eyes away, because Kodlak had entered and strode into their midst. 

The Harbinger began his speech with a short prayer to the nine Divines, as he did every year.  There was no mention of the darker side of the Companions that was only known to the Circle.  Vilkas listened though pretty soon he let his mind wander off and the words wash over him. 

After a while, Vilkas suddenly glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye.  He turned his head slightly and saw Wulfryk take a few slow steps back, moving cautiously and making sure he disturbed no one, before turning and quickly disappearing down the stairs. 

Of course he would make his move when everybody was distracted!  Vilkas turned to follow, but he was not nearly as sneaky and a big hand closed around his upper arm, yanking him back.  Farkas cast him a dark glare for attempting to slink away when Kodlak addressed them.  His brother had not seen the whelp leave and in fact none of the other Companions seemed to have noticed his absence.  But in the silence of the room Vilkas could not speak out and so he was forced to remain and had to keep himself from taping his foot and twitching, willing Kodlak to hurry up.  His one chance at proving that the whelp had something planned and his quarry was escaping. 

The speech ended and there were loud cheers and mugs were lifted in the air and Vilkas honestly couldn't recall one sentence of what had been said, but he dutifully obliged nonetheless, shouting along with the others.  With the formalities behind them, the Companions began to mill around.  They had hired a group of wandering musicians for the night and they now struck up a merry tune.  When Vilkas next looked around, he saw the whelp talk and laugh with Aela.  Damn!  Then Skjor approached him and the two of them went outside for a while where they did not have to shout over the music.  As time passed Vilkas grew increasingly uneasy.  At long last he was left on his own for a while and he could finally break away from the merry thong. 

Vilkas immediately went down the stairs and straight to his room, opening the door warily.  His fears were proven true at once.  Somebody _had_ been in his room.  Not just anybody.  The whelp's smell hung in the air and Vilkas felt his hackles rise.  The newblood was not welcome here and whatever he had left behind was probably a nasty surprise.  The Companion slowly drew his dagger, already regretting that he was not wearing his sword, and made ready to enter, when he heard loud, heavy footfalls echo down the stairs.  There was only one to whom they could belong.  His brother had all the stealth of a mammoth performing a stampede. 

Vilkas cursed inwardly and quickly sheathed his weapon, and none too soon as his twin came into view a moment later.  "There you are!" he shouted. 

Farkas was grinning broadly and he was wearing a ridiculous looking scarf with pompons that looked pinkish in the orange light of the flickering candles.  'What the... ?' was Vilkas' only thought before Farkas grabbed him and asked excitedly, "So, what did you get?" 

"What?" 

Farkas rolled his eyes; he must have picked that up from Aela and patiently said, "Gifts, brother." 

"What  are you... ," Vilkas began, followed by, "I didn't get any," and wondering whether his twin had lost his wits for good. 

"Don't be silly, brother!  Of course you got something.  Everybody did!"  With those words Farkas pushed past Vilkas and entered his brother's room, looking around eagerly.  "Ah, there it is!" he cried suddenly. 

Vilkas could either keep standing in the doorway, completely dumbfounded, or he could be flummoxed and at least know what was going on.  He chose the latter and followed Farkas, who was standing at Vilkas' desk.  Indeed there was a parcel on the desk that he had not been able to see from the doorway and that had most certainly not been there before. 

Farkas lifted it and grunted disappointedly.  "Ugh, books."  He thrust the package into Vilkas' hands and urged him on, "Go on, open it," and busied himself searching the room for something else. 

Vilkas stared at the leather wrapped bundle like he had never seen anything like it before.  Gifts?  That was it?  That was the sinister plan he had envisioned Wulf and Aela concoct?  Maybe his parcel was lethally poisoned.  It was no more than he deserved, after all. 

With stiff fingers Vilkas cut the cord and pulled away the leather cover.  Into view came two heavy tomes of 'Travels across Tamriel', a series he had loved to read, but could never find the other volumes to finish. 

Gifts.  Gods, he had been such an idiot.  Right now Vilkas wanted nothing more than to sink straight through the stone floor of his room, right into Oblivion. 

"See?  I told you it was books!" a voice said over his shoulder, making him jump.  Farkas looked at his brother's shocked face with worry. "You don't like it?" he asked, sounding sad all of a sudden.

Vilkas could only shake his head.  Like it?  He _loved_ it.  His fingers were already twitching to open the cover and leaf through the pages.  To discover everything the books had in store for him, to immerse himself in the words and to embark upon a journey that he would never make in person. 

"I like it," he croaked. 

"Good!" Farkas laughed, "Cause you won't like _this_!"  With those words Farkas caught him in a headlock and began to wrap something around his neck.  It was another scarf, a blue one by the looks of it, but there were pompons and Vilkas struggled like his life depended on keeping his brother from wrapping him up in the garish cloth. 

"No!" Vilkas protested vividly. "Go away!"  He was not going to wear that bloody thing!  Farkas continued to wrap the scarf around his neck, completely disregarding his protests and almost choking Vilkas in the process.

"You're going to have a good time, if I have to tie you up and drag you up the stairs," the big warrior told his brother happily. 

Why his brother believed that he would have a good time being tied up, Vilkas did not know and he did not want to know, but he complied grudgingly and adjusted the scarf so he could breathe.  His twin could be such a kid at times, but putting up resistance was absolutely futile.  Through the power of his brawns or his big eyes that at convenient times resembled those of a puppy, Farkas would get his way.  The other man mustered Vilkas, smiled, and stated, "Now you'll fit in." 

Together they went upstairs again and Vilkas found out what his brother had meant when he saw that most of the other Companions had similar scarves. Only Athis had a large furry hat with earflaps that looked absolutely comical, but the Dunmer seemed happy with his gift. After all, Dark Elves were not exactly known for their resistance to cold.  Vilkas looked around.  He saw that Aela's feet were stuck in thick woollen slippers that would keep her toes warm, that Ria had mittens on and Njada admired a pair of knuckle dusters.  The garments were for fun mostly as the all of the warriors of Jorrvaskr bragged about their real gifts. 

Kodlak had a carving knife with a hilt of horn, Aela a fur-lined quiver and Torvar an enchanted tankard that refilled itself with mead, albeit slowly, but the warrior made good use of it to the amusement of all. 

Even Tilma had gotten fluffy earmuffs, and she shook a leg across the floor with Vignar, both of them laughing like all the cares of old age had fallen away from their shoulders, at least for the night. 

Vilkas could not remember when last the celebrations had been such a merry occasion, certainly not since he and Farkas had been children.  It was... nice.  More than nice.  And he had almost spoiled the surprise with his constant snooping and his distrust.  Somehow Vilkas now felt like he had no right to join the carousing.  There was no doubt in his mind as to who was responsible for it all.  Though they acted oblivious as to who had come up with the gifts, there was no missing the smug look Wulf and Aela shared. 

Eventually the huntress walked up to him.  "Merry Mid-Year!" she sang, tugging on Vilkas' scarf. 

Vilkas 'hmmpf'd. 

"You should apologise, you know?" 

"Vilkas sighed.  "I'm sorry."  He hoped his friend would forgive him, but Aela swatted him upside the head instead. 

"Not to me, you dolt!"

Damn, he should have known that she wouldn't let him get away so easily. 

"Alright," he growled. 

"Just walk up to him and say it.  It's not that difficult, really.  Oh, and while you're at it, don't punch Wulf in the face," she added helpfully. 

"Right."  Vilkas prayed that she would leave him be, but Aela had other plans. 

"Now!" she said and when he wouldn't bulge she raised her voice and called out, "Wulf!  Come over for a minute, Vilkas has something he wants to tell you!"  She gave her shield-brother a smile that had too many teeth in it. 

Wulfryk looked cautiously from one Companion to the other and as if in a peace offering he said, "Happy Mid-Year, Vilkas." 

"Merry Mid-Year, whelp," Vilkas ground out. 

Wulfryk looked hurt and left, and Aela cast Vilkas a scalding glare.  "Apologize!" she commanded. 

He threw his hands up in the air.  "I will," he cried.  "Just... not now." 

Vilkas was left mostly alone after that.  His brother tried for him to join the revelry, but even he gave up eventually and Vilkas was left to wallow in misery, probably the only one who was still stone cold sober. 

"You're an idiot," somebody unexpectedly said next to him said, giving voice to Vilkas' earlier thoughts. 

"Aye," he sighed.  There really was no more room for argument.  He looked up in surprise when he was handed a bottle of mead. 

"Drink," Wulfryk said.  "That won't make you less of one, but it will make you feel better about it."  He was leaning against the table at which Vilkas was sitting by himself. 

"I take it you speak from experience," the Companion responded and he could have bitten off his tongue for starting another argument. 

But Wulf only chuckled, taking no offence at the words and replied, "You bet." 

Vilkas accepted the offered bottle and drank deeply.  Wulf watched him for a while without trying to hide it and asked, "So, what did you think Aela and I had planned?" 

What could he say?  Everything he had thought about sounded so stupid now that Vilkas could only shake his head. 

To strike up a conversation he enquired after an awkward pause, "I couldn't figure it out - what _were_ you lying about in the 'Mare?" 

"Would you believe it if I told you that a week after I had crossed the border I got into an Imperial ambush and they thought I was a Stormcloak and almost chopped my head off?" 

This was his chance at, maybe not peace, but a truce at last.  "I'm glad they didn't," Vilkas said and  he meant it. 

"There you go, Grumpy."  That cheeky grin had appeared again. 

"Vilkas looked up.  "I still don't like you," he stated, but there was no weight behind his words.  Despite himself he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.  He would have blamed it on the drink, but he had not had nearly enough to affect him. 

"Come on," Wulf said and after hesitating briefly he clapped his shield-brother on the shoulder.  "You're not having much fun by the looks of it.  We can wait for Torvar's face when he realizes that the enchantment wears off." 

Vilkas laughed and rose.  The man would be heartbroken.  "Sounds good."  He grabbed another two bottles, one of which he handed Wulf and they went to join the merriment. 

In spite of everything he had a great evening and after so many years this one festival of Mid-Year did not feel meaningless and empty.  Instead it was filled with the laughter of the friends and family that were the Companions.  


	11. BTS

Wulf and Vilkas were to set out on the day after the Mid-Year celebration, but another bout of bad weather forced them to delay their departure. 

Wulfryk looked out of the single window that was not shuttered closed, but widely open in spite of the weather, as he watched the city and the storm that raged over it.  It almost seemed as if the weather had held solely for the festival, because afterwards the summer storms which usually happened in early autumn and signified the end of the summer had come early, and they now they ravaged the plains of Whiterun Hold.  A cold wind had picked up speed and become a gale and the air was leaden with energy that was discharged whenever bolts of lightning flashed, followed by thunderous booms.  Rain and hail poured down from the skies and due to the tundra being flatland, travelling was now entirely impossible. 

Wulf did not mind that the assignment he and Vilkas should have set out for almost a week ago had to be postponed.  He was content to sit by the window and observe the countryside, for there was nothing like watching Kyne's Wrath unleash its destructive powers upon the land, whilst oneself was in a safe place. 

Besides, he was in no hurry to be alone with Vilkas.  They had come to a truce after Mid-Year, however whether the peace would last was uncertain at best, as they were not exactly friends or enemies, but allies by force and rivals by choice and maybe nature. 

At least the big Nord was nowhere in sight and Farkas had told Wulf in a slightly accusing voice that his brother had barricaded himself in his room and spent his days with his favourite pastime besides weapons training: reading.  The other Companions all passed the time in a comatose state, induced by either boredom or copious amounts of alcoholic beverages.  Wulf secretly enjoyed the break, not that he would dare to admit it to his shield-siblings.  It was nice that for once absolutely nothing was going on. 

"You blinked four times in the past five minutes," a deep voice suddenly spoke up.  "And that's the most interesting thing that's happened in the last hour." 

Wulf turned away from the window to look at Farkas, who was sitting draped across a bench, his head pillowed on his arms. 

"I almost wish Nelkir'd take off again," Farkas grumbled and Wulf snorted in answer. He knew the warrior, effectively penned inside by the weather, was itching for some action, but with hail the size of chickens' eggs still falling, an emergency rescue would be less fun than it sounded. It had been hell a week ago, when the Jarl's son had failed to return home by nightfall and they had all helped the guard find the little blighter. Who did not want to be found and cursed them when, two days later and with the storms as good as upon them, they dragged him back to his father all the way from Chillfurrow.

Tilma _tsked_ in the corner. "Don't you say that," the old woman chided and Farkas huffed, stirring up a small cloud of dust.

To stop them from going stir-crazy, the Companions had converted the main hall into a training ring.  It had been a tricky undertaking, because the combatants had to circle the big open fireplace.  But the fights had made a terrible din and led to much of the furniture being smashed, and Tilma had finally put a stop to them by threatening to leave.  And without the old lady to cook and clean the Companions would not last two days.  So now Tilma was sitting in a corner and knitting, her needles clicking softly from time to time while she happily hummed and everybody else was dying from the monotony. 

Now though the old woman looked up from her work and sighed heavily, a sure sign that she was going to launch into a lengthy sermon. "I wonder what happened. I know they must miss their mother, but Margit died years ago and the troubles just started this year. Oh, Dagny's always been a little princess, but even Gerda says Nelkir used to be such a sweet boy. Poor Balgruuf, it must be getting too much for him. The man is working so hard to run the hold and keep Whiterun out of the war, and with the city's clans at each other's throats and three children to look after all on his own at that. No wonder he is wearing himself out." Tilma nodded, happy to have voiced her opinion and, with nobody willing to contradict her, resumed her knitting.

"He should spend more time disciplining his brats and less trying to talk sense into Vignar and Olfrid," Farkas muttered quietly enough that neither Tilma nor any other Companion would hear it. "If Kodlak couldn't do it, it's not possible."

Knowing what he did of the old man, Vignar's skull was about as thick as a mammoth's, albeit with less space for brains. Wulf agreed with his friend wholeheartedly; the Jarl's brood was spoiled and rude and had become one of the city's favourite source of gossip and complaint, especially Balgruuf's youngest and most troublesome offspring.

Wulf smirked and nodded, not saying anything and looked outside as a particularly bright flash of lightening made the silhouette of the city stand out harshly. 

"How can you stand it?" Farkas enquired, changing the topic and shifting once again. 

"I like it," Wulfryk said softly. 

Farkas only shook his head.  "You are mad," the big warrior concluded. "You and my brother both." 

"If you're so very bored, why don't you go talk to him?" Wulf suggested. 

"Are you joking?  The last time I interrupted his reading, he tossed a chair at me," the big warrior whined. 

Wulf chuckled in answer.  "We wouldn't want that, would we?  Best leave him be, then." 

"You don't have anything to worry about," Farkas grumbled.  "He likes you." 

"Eh, what?"  Wulf wasn't sure he had hear right. 

But Farkas just shrugged his shoulders and repeated "Vilkas really likes you, you know?" 

What did one say to that?  "I'm sure he likes you a whole lot more than he does me, and if Grumpy's throwing furniture at you, I'm staying the hell away." 

There was something unreadable in Farkas' eyes, but the big Nord did not comment further.  Instead he complained once more, "I'm bored." 

Wulf couldn't let his friend suffer like that.  "How about a game of Cutthroat Hearts, Bright?  I can teach you how to cheat so next time you can win against Athis," the Nord offered.  Farkas was terrible at card and dice games, but by now they were both sick of tafl, and so the Companion agreed readily, even if it meant losing to his friend seven times in a row.  The practice paid off though and later that evening Wulfryk had the satisfaction of seeing Farkas beat Ria, Njada and Torvar handily, if only because Wulf slipped him cards when nobody was looking. 

Torvar and Ria seemed happy that for once their shield-brother had won, but Wallface was glowering at Wulf darkly, who was trying and failing to hide his grin behind a mug of ale.  Before accusations were flung, their round was disrupted by Kodlak and Skjor entering.  They had been to the Temple and had good news: Danica had assured them that the weather was changing once again and the storms were at an end.  How the head priestess knew nobody could tell, but then again Kynareth was the goddess of the skies, the winds and the elements.  A cheer rose up at the announcement, and Ria invited the men to join their game.  Skjor refused, but Kodlak allowed himself to be talked into a round, and with quite a bit of help on Wulf's side, Farkas cheated the old man out of a pouch of coins.  Laughing at the stunned faces of their fellow Companions and at Kodlak who was scratching his head in confusion, the two schemers left before anybody could find proof of their rigging the game.

oooo 

Wulfryk went to sleep late and woke early when a clamour made him sit up and rub his eyes groggily.  It took him a good while to recognise the sound for what it was: the muted clash of swords.  It had been a while since he had last heard the ring of steel and Wulf knew it meant that the storm was over at last.  He dressed slowly and got up, shuffling out of the dormitory and up the steps.  He had not been mistaken.  In the courtyard Farkas, Skjor, Aela, Torvar, and Njada were going up against each other in a lively fight that resembled a miniature battle. 

Dark clouds hung overhead, but the wind had died down and the smell of snow was no longer on the air, even though there was a white, powdery blanket covering the countryside.  It was too early for snow and it would melt soon, but summer was now definitely over and autumn had come. 

Amongst the spectators watching Farkas beat his shield-siblings, this time without the need of Wulf's aid, was the man's twin.  Vilkas caught Wulfryk's eye and walked over.  "Have you packed?" he asked Wulf without preamble. 

Wulfryk shook his head, but replied, "It won't take long." 

Vilkas nodded and resumed, "We will wait until midday to see if the weather holds.  If so, we set out immediately.  The storms have cost us far too much time as it is." 

"Understood," Wulf agreed.  Their short conversation was awkward and courteous, as both were weary of striking up another argument.  Vilkas turned on his heel and Wulf sighed heavily at the warrior's retreating back.  So the laziness was over and it was time to pick up the sword once more.  He would have to check his gear, although he was pretty certain that it was in a pristine condition.  The Nord went back inside to eat a hurried breakfast and to pack.  Wulfryk was glad to have new winter clothes, as he had little doubt that from now on the nights would be bitter cold.  He chose to leave behind his own small tent and use one belonging to the Companions instead, and then he was off, running about a few last-minute errands. 

Wulf was just returning from Arcadia, having bought healing potions and a few ingredients that might come in handy, and upon entering the mead hall he found Vilkas sitting next to the entrance, a heavy pack at the Nord's feet.  "Are you ready?" the warrior asked. 

"Yeah," Wulf said and went downstairs to retrieve his own backpack. 

And then there was nothing more to do and he found himself taking leave from Farkas, Aela and his other friends all too soon.  Theirs was the first mission and Wulf waved goodbye once more before he followed his fellow traveller through Whiterun and out, towards the stables.  Skulvar readied their horses, although the stable master was concerned because the animals had spent so much time locked in.  Indeed, Wulf's horse burst out of its box in a wild gallop and continued to canter around him in a tight circle due to its rider keeping a tight grip on the reins, and even Vilkas' favourite and usually quite placid mare was frisky and nervous.  They mounted up carefully and settled for a brisk trot until after a few miles their horses were breathing heavily and had calmed down somewhat, now that they were able to work off their excess energy.  They did not risk a gallop on the first day though and Wulf, who rode in the lead, watched the countryside pass by slowly. 

Their destination was a, as far as Wulfryk knew, nameless fort at the very feet of the Anthor mountains.  They took the main road north and the first leg of their journey would lead them through the Whitewatch Tower that stood on the very boarder to the Pale.  They would continue northwards and slightly to the east and leave the road where it split, one branch leading towards Windhelm, the other to Dawnstar.  On horseback the travel should not take them much longer than a week, if they managed to keep up a pace of thirty miles per day.  

One week with nothing to do but to listen to the uneasy silence that stretched between.  Splendid.  Wulf needed this journey like he needed a mace to the head, especially now that he could feel Vilkas' gaze drilling into his back.  He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.  If the Companion still wanted to get rid of him, now was the perfect opportunity.  Out in the wilds where nobody watched, anything could be passed off as an accident.  That was how Wulf would have done it, although he did not think that Vilkas was this cold blooded.  The man was a killer certainly, but no murderer.  It was only a small consolation, because now the spot between his shoulder blades had begun to itch and he had to clench his hands on the reins to prevent himself from scratching, knowing that it would not help in the slightest. 

When it began to rain, Wulfryk happily pulled up his hood, feeling like he was hiding and not caring in the least.  He listened to the rhythmic clap of his horse's hooves and let his thoughts wander.  It had been a year since he had left Elsweyr.  He missed the smell of the sea and the hot, sunny weather.  He missed the people he had come to know, his friends.  He wondered whether Ralof was in Windhelm now, drinking and laughing with his fellow soldiers.  He had sent the Stormcloak a booklet for Mid-Year and though his friend was illiterate, there were plenty of sketches involving General Tulluis, Jarl Elisif and the Thalmor that did not leave much to the imagination. 

Thus hours and miles passed, and when dusk settled they pulled off the road and into a grove of a few bushes and small twisted trees; but little shelter was better than none and it had the advantage that here they could tie off the horses.  Wulf jumped from the saddle and winced from the jarring impact with the hard ground.  He stretched his legs, but refrained from massaging his aching backside.  Vilkas followed suit and while Wulf held the reins he unburdened the animals from their saddles and packs. 

"How about I water the horses, hm?" Wulf offered when the other Nord was done.  They worked separately, each pretending to be too busy with his task to notice how uncomfortable the entire situation was. 

Half an hour later they had raised the tent and had a fire going and Wulf was poking at it with a stick. 

"We made good time today," Vilkas spoke up hesitantly.  "We should reach the Whitewatch tomorrow." 

"Mhm," Wulf grunted.  It did not feel like enough, so he decided to put some effort into it and added, "Be nice to have a roof over the head." 

Vilkas nodded in agreement and the conversation died after that. 

They were sitting at an odd angle, since being opposite of each other would mean that they would have to look at one another.  But neither were they side by side, keeping a careful distance as they warmed their meal over the fire.  They ate in silence and Wulf refilled their water canteens from a small brook that trickled nearby.  He rejoined Vilkas by the fire for a little while, but the tension was hardly pleasant, and thus Wulfryk feigned tiredness and decided to turn in early.  He got up, wishing the other Nord a 'good night', that the warrior returned politely, and walked up to their tent, stopping dead in his tracks when he reached it. 

Their tent.  Their small tent.  They were both big Nords, and it would be very... close.  Wulf's mind shied away from the term 'Intimate'.  He had completely forgotten about their sleeping arrangements, or maybe he had repressed it.  Wulf borrowed Ralof's favourite phrase and cursed, "Talos' balls!" 

"What's wrong?" Vilkas asked above the crackling of their fire. 

How had he overheard his muttered curse?  "I like to sleep naked," Wulf replied without thinking and upon looking back he swore he saw Vilkas' jaw drop and the bowl the warrior was holding in his hands tilt dangerously.  It was the truth, and quite out of the question.  Because of the cold, Wulf told himself.  He settled for pants and a light, sleeveless shirt as sleeping clothes and crawled into his bedroll, using his pack as a pillow and his fur mantle as a second cover.  But try as he might, his mind would not shut down and sleep never came.  About an hour later Vilkas entered their tent and lay down as far from Wulfryk as possible, very careful not to touch, although he hadn't had any such inhibitions when they had fought.  It had to be something else then, that Wulf pondered while he pretended to be asleep, knowing full well that the Companion saw through his act.  But it made things easier, if only a little bit, and now for once they had an excuse not to talk to each other. 

He must have fallen asleep after all, because Wulf woke up at first light after a rather restless night and got up, although he _never_ rose that early.  He relieved himself behind a bush and busied himself watering the horses again and stroking the fire back to life.  By the time he was done Vilkas was up as well and it only took Wulf one look at his bloodshot eyes to know he wasn't the only one whom sleep had escaped. 

Still, he asked out of courtesy, "Slept well?" 

The Companion glowered at the ground for a moment before giving a curt nod. 

"Yeah, me too," Wulf grumbled and he wasn't entirely sure why he was keeping up the facade.  If he toppled out of his saddle today, it would reveal his poor lie.  Vilkas was pacing back and forth, eager to be off as well.  He seemed to be on edge for some reason. 

They ate, tore down their camp and set out once more, the day passing in much the same way as the first had done.  By the end of it Wulf was close to throwing what Ralof would undoubtedly have called a 'hissy fit'.  He could feel Vilkas' eyes follow his every movement.  He came close to stopping his horse several times and shouting, or at least demanding to know what the warrior was unhappy about _this time_ , but whenever he turned back the Companion had a look of thoughtfulness rather than one of distrust or even dislike.  Maybe he was suffering under the awkwardness as well, but there was nothing Wulf could do to ease the tension.  It was not like they had any common ground.  A few times he imagined that he had heard the big warrior draw in a deep breath, not quite a sigh, but maybe an attempt to strike up a conversation.  Whatever it was, it seemed to weigh heavily on the Companion's mind, and he never got it out, snapping his mouth closed every time.  Wulfryk imagined he could hear the man's teeth grind together.  He felt relief wash over him when the Tower of Whitewatch finally came into view. 

The guardsmen welcomed them with the respect that was due to the Companions and they got a warm meal and two separate if small rooms.  It was obvious that the commanding officer and his second had moved out themselves to sleep with their men.  Wulf settled for the night early, fully intending to make up for lost sleep.  He stared up at the ceiling for a while, wondering how this little adventure was going to end. 

Another day of travel would await them tomorrow.  Joy of joys.  Wulf couldn't wait for this journey to be over.  At last he got a good nights' rest, unknowing that in the next room, Vilkas was wide awake, listening to howling that was entirely in his head. 


	12. BTS

In the morning Wulf woke up feeling refreshed and full of energy.  He had mulled over the problem he had had with his fellow Companion yesterday, and he had come to a conclusion.  It wasn't the best plan, but it was the only one he had and so he decided to follow through with it and treat Vilkas like a person for once, as he would Ralof, Aela, Farkas or almost anybody else, really. 

"Good morning," he greeted the warrior cheerfully when they met in the main hall to break their fast.  Vilkas sat slumped, stirring the food in his bowl listlessly and he looked tired, more so than he had done the day before.  He had cleaned off his black war paint overnight and the lack of it made the dark bruises beneath his eyes all the more visible. 

"Haven't had much sleep today either?" Wulf asked with a rueful twitch of his lips. 

Vilkas only shook his head in negation as there was no use in denying the truth that was so very obvious. 

"So, where are we going today?" Wulf wanted to know. 

"We follow the road for long as we can," Vilkas replied guardedly.  The Companion was used to getting up early and though he was not talkative, especially not in the morning, he had listened to his brother chatter endlessly for his entire life, and so the exchange was a welcome diversion. 

Although Vilkas seemed surprised at Wulf's unpredicted change of attitude and his responses were stiff and formal at first, when Wulfryk showed no willingness to begin a quarrel or to taunt him, he relaxed marginally and slowly warmed up to their breakfast conversation.  He even recounted a story from the hundred year long war between the Jarls of Skyrim in which the very tower they were now sitting in had played a crucial part in defending Whiterun's boarder. 

When they set out once more, the silence seemed peaceful rather than strained.  Wulfryk was in the lead as usual, but Vilkas was not far behind, sitting with his chin tucked in and Wulf thought that the Companion might have nodded off, although he could not tell for sure.  He made certain to check from time to time that the man had not fallen off or fallen behind, but his mare plodded obediently after Wulfryk's own mount.  It was shortly past midday when Vilkas nudged his horse alongside Wulf's, careful not to come too close, because the black had laid back his ears in warning.  The other Nord made the impression of being more alert than he had been a few hours ago, so maybe he had actually been resting. 

"In Valenwood... ," the Companion began out of the blue, "... do the Mer really live in trees?"

"Huh?" Wulf grunted in surprise.  They had spent two days in near total silence and Vilkas' sudden question made him jump.  "Oh, yes.  And some of the trees walk around, which is scary as hell," he replied offhandedly, curious as to whether Vilkas would take the bait.  He did. 

"Walking trees?  You are making that up," Vilkas scoffed. 

"Not at all," Wulf laughed.  "I didn't know myself as nobody had warned me; I now believe they did it on purpose to scare me." The Bosmer had invited him to stay with them overnight during one of his travels. Most of them had never seen a Nord before.  Some dwellings of the Woodelves were very secluded indeed. "They live in tree houses. Well, the more traditional ones do," he resumed, remembering how he had slept very uneasily then, too.  Everything had creaked and swayed and the ground was so very far away, but refusing the invitation would have equalen an insult.  "When I woke up, the tree had moved some twenty miles overnight and I nearly freaked out, because my hosts pretended that it was me imagining things."  He had come close to crying, because he had fallen asleep in a valley and woken on top of a little hill and by the time the elves admitted to their prank, he had been too relieved to be mad.  "But it was all in good fun and I forgave them, maybe because the Bosmer are so tiny, they're almost cute, even though they can be a mean shot with the bow.  And never joke about taking an axe to one of their walking trees.  They won't think it very funny," Wulf added as if in afterthought.   

"I take it you did just that," Vilkas supplied with a small smile. 

"Aye," Wulf agreed readily and light-heartedly continued, "And it's a good thing I'm a fast runner because I tend to be a slow thinker at times."

Vilkas burst out laughing, the sound deep and throaty and entirely pleasant.  Wulf looked up in surprise.  In half a year he could not remember whether he had heard the man laugh even once.  Vilkas was always so serious - it made teasing him all the more fun - but a joyful expression suited him so much better than his usual scowl.  It also made him look quite a bit younger, and for the first time Wulfryk found himself wondering about the Companion's age. 

"You know, my brother was actually right," the big warrior finally said with one last amused chuckle and a shake of his head. 

"Huh.  What about?" Wulf wanted to know. 

But Vilkas only smiled and refused to tell, and all Wulfryk could think of was what Farkas had told him; namely that his brother liked him.  It had been hard to believe then, but maybe... they weren't hating each other at the moment, right? 

If he wasn't getting an answer, Wulf decided to distract himself and asked about what was on his mind, "How old are you, anyway?"

"Guess," Vilkas prompted with an amused glint in his eyes. 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd believe you were older than me," Wulf mused.  "But it can't be, because Farkas is your twin and he is no older than... ," at this point Wulfryk narrowed his eyes at Vilkas, appraising the warrior one last time.  "Five-and-twenty," he finally said. 

"You're right," Vilkas confirmed, not at all surprised that Wulfryk had pinned down his age so well.  The man was much more observant than the Nord had at first given him credit for.  "And what about you?  Am I right in assuming that you're older than you look?" 

Wulfryk grimaced, but nodded nonetheless.  "Add three years," he finally conceded. 

"In that case you're getting old," the other man stated dryly and Wulf almost shot back something nasty, because dammit, he wasn't old, until he noticed that Vilkas was teasing, which was not something the Companion had done before. 

Keeping up the banter was easy and Wulf joked, "Yeah, I'm virtually a doter.  Watch out, for I shall have you carrying my packs and cooking my meals in no time." 

By now the two men were so engrossed in conversation, they narrowly avoided an accident when Wulf's horse decided to pick a fight.  Wulfryk used his reins to slap it sharplyon the neck, muttering, "Stupid nag."  Vilkas' mare looked smug when her rider only gave her a pat for her good behaviour. 

"Your horse has terrible manners," the big warrior complained. 

"Sorry," Wulf apologised.  "He was like that when I got him."  A second after the words had left his mouth, Wulfryk could have bitten off his own tongue for betraying him like that. 

With a smirk, and in a deceptively sweet voice, Vilkas asked, "And where would that be?"

A supposed convict had no reason to own a horse, besides of the obvious one.  "Ehh, do you really want to know?"  Wulf drew out the words carefully, wondering just how much of an offence to the Companions' honour theft would be. "I'll tell you when you tell me what the 'call of the blood' is."

"I guess it's none of my business," Vilkas promptly replied, feeling sweat prickle at his brow.  He did not want to know where Wulf had picked up that last line – or the damned horse, for the matter. The Companion had learned his lesson at Mid-Year.  He only hoped that his fellow traveller would see how much effort it took him not to snoop.  It was his way of saying 'See, I'm trying'.  Instead, he enquired, "What was it like?"

"Having my head on the block?" Wulf asked.  "Mildly unpleasant," he decided with an unhappy frown. 

"No, the dragon," Vilkas clarified with an amused snort. 

"Oh."  Wulf should have known.  Everybody wanted to know about the dragon.  "Big," he began.  "Black.  And it was spewing fire and talking, which, if you ask me, is fucking terrifying." 

He was wondering whether Vilkas would now believe that he had had his brains fried, but the Nord only furrowed his brows.  After a while he enquired, "What did it say?" 

In disbelief Wulf retorted, "Do I look like I speak Dragon?  Maybe I was imagining things," he admitted immediately afterwards. 

"No, I do not believe so," Vilkas replied, a contemplative frown still on his face.  "You must have heard the ancient tongue.  The records from the dragon war are very old, but they all report that dragons are intelligent beings, not mindless beasts.  It stands to reason that they should have their own language.  And as to their ability to breathe fire; there are those amongst humans who can harness the power of their words as well.  The Thu'um, we call it.  The Greybeards are known for their mastery of the Voice.  As is Ulfric Stormcloak," Vilkas added. 

Wulf remembered what Hadvar had said, that the rebellious Jarl of Windhelm had shouted apart the gates of Helgen. He had thought the Legionnaire was exaggerating at the time. "How do you know all that?" the Nord asked his companion.

"I've read about it," Vilkas replied looking very self-satisfied.  "What my dear brother does not understand is that sometimes swinging your sword at the enemy is not enough.  Knowledge can be a powerful weapon as well." 

It was a sentiment Wulf could agree wholeheartedly with, as he had spent his entire life living by those very words. 

"Those books," Vilkas resumed after a moment, "Where did you get them from?  I've read the first volume once and spent two years trying to find the other tomes without success."

Now it was Wulf's turn to look smug.  "I got them from the Jarl's own library; or rather that of his court wizard," he answered. 

"How on earth did you talk him into giving them to you?" Vilkas voice was ripe with curiosity and maybe a little admiration.  From what little he knew about Farengar, the wizard was a rather dour fellow who believed others to be unworthy of his precious time.  A man devoted to his studies and the 'art' of magic, it seemed not even he was immune to Wulf's power of persuasion.  The gift had been the nicest thing anybody had done for him in ages. 

Wulf's reply was a bit vague.  "He owed me rather big," the Nord remarked elusively. 

Vilkas had heard of a quest the Jarl had sent Wulfryk on and was sure that said favour must have been linked to it.  There was one more thing that was not giving him any rest, though.  "All I want to know is – why?" Vilkas enquired.  "I haven't exactly been... ," the warrior halted for one brief moment before continuing, "... gracious."  And that was putting it mildly, he knew. 

"It was Mid-Year," Wulf simply stated.  "Everybody deserves gifts on Mid-Year," he said with a note of bitterness in his voice.  From one second to the next he shook off his melancholy expression and resumed, "And I thought they might make you less grumpy."

Vilkas pursed his lips in slight annoyance.  'Damn the whelp,' he thought almost fondly.  "Is there something that would make you less annoying?" he shot back. 

"I'm afraid not," Wulf replied with an apologetic smile.  "I'm an acquired taste," he finished with a decisive nod of his head. 

Vilkas decided not to comment.  "How did you know those were the very books I was looking for?" he enquired, curious. 

"Farkas told me," Wulf admitted. 

Upon the mention of his brother's name, the harsh planes of Vilkas' face softened into an expression of tenderness that Wulf had noticed him only display when around his twin.  Wulfryk did not think that the big Nord was aware of that fact.  He thought he was slowly beginning to understand the Companion. 

"I take it you enjoyed the reading?" he observed with a small smile of his own. 

"That I did.  I just wish I could travel to some of the places myself," Vilkas replied with a look of wistful longing. 

"Who knows?  One day you might do just that," Wulf tried to console him.  You never knew what life held in store, after all. 

But his words, well meant as they were, seemed to have a different effect on the other man.  "That's unlikely.  I could never leave the Companions," Vilkas responded, sounding distanced once more. 

"Why not?  The Companions can go on without you for a year or two." 

"Not if Kodlak... ," Vilkas began and broke off his half-finished sentence abruptly. 

"Not if Kodlak – what?" Wulf wanted to know. 

But Vilkas was just shaking his head, unwilling to give a straight answer.  "I cannot leave the Companions," he simply repeated with a hint of defeat. 

Wulf decided it was better to lay the matter to rest. 

When he looked around he was surprised that the sun already hung low in the sky.  A few more miles and they would leave the tundra; from here they already could see a line of trees that stood out darkly against the horizon.  The day had practically flown by, and Wulfryk had to admit that he had enjoyed it.  The same could be said of Vilkas and together they picked a good place to strike up camp, dividing the work as they had on the first two days of their journey.  The routine was comforting and it did not take them long before they had the horses settled, the tent up, and the food out and sizzling in the pan.  They had resupplied at the watchtower and had enough to last them for the next two days.  They could even make it four, but there was no reason for such tight rationing. 

Tiredness overwhelmed Wulf soon after eating and he retreated for the night, falling asleep immediately, probably due to having a full belly.  He did not sleep long though, as he was startled awake in the middle of the night.  Looking around he noticed that Vilkas' bedroll was lying untouched in the corner and that of the man himself there was no sign.  Wulfryk crawled out of the tent to find the Companion adding sticks to their dying fire.  The flames went up with a loud crack when the dry wood caught fire. 

"My apologies," Vilkas said, "I did not mean to wake you up."

Why he was still up Wulf could not fathom and he asked the obvious, "You're not sleeping?"

Vilkas only shook his head in negation. 

"Why not?  Is something wrong?"  Wulfryk really hoped that the other man wasn't going to unload his heart's woes, because he really was terrible when it came to dealing with feelings. 

Vilkas sat unmoving for a while, before he let out his breath in a long sigh and fell back to look up at the stars.  "No," he said softly.  "It's just insomnia." 

Wulf felt somewhat relieved and he made himself comfortable, folding his legs beneath him.  "I might as well show some solidarity and keep you company."

"That's admirable, but not necessary.  You should get your rest," Vilkas replied, not ungratefully. 

But Wulf wasn't thinking about following that quite reasonable advice and prodded further, "Is there anything that helps?  I have herbs if you're willing to experiment," he said. 

"I have already tried that method and it does not work," Vilkas explained. 

Wulf seemed lost in thought for a moment and a while later he proposed, "Maybe warm milk would help?"

The Companion only shot him a dark glare. 

"A backrub?" Wulf suggested next, because he was running out of ideas.  "Or I could knock you out," he offered helpfully.  "I've been wanting to do that for some time now."

In the darkness next to him he heard Vilkas' soft laugh.  That was twice in a day.  Wulfryk felt like he deserved a medal or something.  "Aye," the other man admitted.  "I know that feeling."

Wulf leaned back as well and they both stared at the bright canopy of stars for a long time; each lost in his own thoughts.  Somewhere, far in the distance, wolves howled.  Vilkas raised his head slightly at the sound, tilting it to the side and then he did the last thing Wulf expected: he curled his hands and howled back, the sound surprisingly lifelike.  The wolves answered, their mournful cries carrying through the dark. 

"Maybe we should guard our camp, I wouldn't fancy waking up and finding out that our horses have been eaten."

"That won't be necessary. They will not bother us," Vilkas assured him softly, a faraway look on his face. 

There was something unreadable in his voice, but Wulfryk chose not to bother the man about it.  Instead, he went back to looking at the sky.  In Elsweyr the stars had been different, he thought and felt a small pang of homesickness for the country he had lived in before he had come to Skyrim. 

Vilkas seemed to sense his pensive mood, and silence once more settled over the camp, until the Companion raised his hand and pointed out a few bright stars.  “See those stars?  That's Ysgramor's Belt.  He's using it to strangle the Great Giant," the other Nord began. 

"Really?"  Wulf wasn't familiar with the constellations of the north, but Vilkas would be.  It was fascinating, only... , "I don't see anything," Wulf grumbled, squinting his eyes.  "What's that one?" he asked, pointing at another cluster of stars. 

"The Dancing Horker," Vilkas replied without hesitation. 

"And those?"

"The White Wolf... that... erm... humps Talos' Leg."

"What?" Wulf cried in disbelief.  "Who names a constellation like that?" he wanted to know and turned to look at Vilkas only to see the man shaking with silent laughter.  It downed on him that he had just been made a huge fool of.  "Hey, that's... ," but Wulf couldn't think of anything so he settled for a lame, "... Not fair," and a punch to Vilkas' upper arm. 

"You're welcome to make up a few of your own," the big warrior invited him to join the game. 

"Alright, let's see."  Wulfryk stretched out, laying down his head on one arm.  With the other he indicated some stars to the far left.  "I can see a sieve, snowflakes, and those over there kind of look like a cactus," he mused. 

They went at it for a while until Wulf noticed another constellation.  "Look, there's a giant cock."

"Where?"  Vilkas narrowed his eyes.  "You're right, it does rather look like a... - wait, what was that?" he asked, serious all of a sudden, gaze glued to a point in the sky where the stars flickered and disappeared as something covered them. 

"Looks like a cloud," Wulfryk thought aloud.  "Although it's moving fast."

Especially on this windless night.  'Oh, no,' he thought.  'Oh no, no, no, no, no.'

And then there was no more doubt, because Wulf _felt_ it and he jumped up faster than if a horse had kicked him.  "Put out the fire, he hissed at the Companion and together they extinguished it hurriedly by smothering it with soil. 

"Is that... ," Vilkas breathed, but Wulf did not let him finish. 

"Dragon," he bit out through clenched teeth.  "Get on your horse; we ride now!" he ordered, already sprinting for his mount and for once Vilkas obeyed without question and without delay.  There was no way the dragon could have missed their campfire; it probably had been the only source of light in a radius of several dozen miles.  Wulfryk yanked open the knot of the rope that tethered his horse to a bush and vaulted upon its back, and before he was even properly seated he was tearing across the plain in a full gallop, Vilkas in tow.  He used the single rope as reins and held onto a fistful of mane for balance, but in retrospect it was almost a miracle that he did not break his neck or his horse's legs in his mad dash through the dark. 

Behind him, a roar tore through the soft sounds of the night.  A hush fell over the land and the only noise Wulf could make out was the frantic beat his horse's hooves drummed against the ground, and his own blood thundering in his ears, the pounding rising in volume.  It wasn't his blood after all, he realized, but the thump of wings coming closer. 

He kicked his horse to go faster and the black did, flying over the ground, but Wulf doubted that even a pure blooded Imperial horse would have been able to outrun a dragon on the wing for long.  His own mount might be able to keep up the murderous pace for a while longer, but Vilkas' Nord mare was already lagging behind.  They had to find cover, and fast.  The dragon let out another roar and this time it seemed to come from almost directly above them.  Wulfryk might just make it to the trees in time, but Vilkas never would. 

The dragon only needed to fly a little lower and to open its jaws.  Wulf could still hear the death screams of men being roasted alive and smell the sickly sweet odour of charred flesh.  And there was nothing they could do against a foe that was up in the sky.  Nothing except for... it was crazy and most likely suicidal.  But it might be their only chance. 

 

xxxx

 

Vilkas cursed under his breath as he urged his own horse on, although he did not doubt that the mare was already giving everything she had.  Wulfryk had taken off like an arrow and left the lumbering Nord horse and its rider behind.  Damn the whelp, he was all bark, but where was he when one of his shield-siblings was in trouble?  Not that there was much he could do against a dragon.  Neither could Vilkas, and that was the worst of it. 

Things had gone so well since this morning.  Now that Vilkas' sole focus had not been on hating Wulfryk, he found that he was beginning to enjoy the other man's company.  Wulf might be an insolent, cocky whelp, but he was clever and even his wit was amusing, now that Vilkas wasn't on the receiving end of his jokes.  He had been offended at first, but after a while he had come to realize that Wulfryk was as quick to make fun of himself as he was of anybody else. 

All of a sudden Vilkas had become conscious of the fact that he wanted to get to know the man better.  They still weren't what he'd call friends, after all there was some bad blood between them that needed cleaning away, but today they had made progress in becoming just that.  For a moment, as they had lain in the grass, he thought he had felt a closeness between them; a bond forming.  He had begun their little game of naming constellations, because that was something he had liked to do when he had been younger, back when he had stayed up late because he had wanted to. 

Now the Nord's head was still reeling from how quickly their fortunes had changed.  One moment everything had been fine and in the next they were running for their lives, so as not to end up eaten by a legend come to life.  He felt a breeze ruffle his hair and he knew that it was not wind.  When the warrior looked up, the dragon's silhouette was everything he could see; the stars all but hidden behind its massive bulk.  When it roared, Vilkas could smell decaying meet on its hot breath; the smell of death.  But he was a Companion and if he was to end up in the dragon's belly, he would make it eat steel.  This was it: victory or Sovn- ... victory or the hunting grounds. 

Before he could even draw his sword, there was a flash of light in the distance and a familiar voice shouted "HEY!  Hey, you ugly lizard, I am here!"  The light became brighter and waved around wildly.  "Come, get your fat ass moving and face me, if you dare!"

Vilkas drew in a sharp breath.  What in oblivion was the man doing; and where had he gotten the torch from? 

The dragon let out a bellow of rage and let off Vilkas, swerving sharply and changing its course.

And then it dawned on Vilkas that Wulfryk was taunting the dragon, drawing it away from the Companion; and ensuring his escape. 

"That's it, you sodding heap of scales!"

His plan worked flawlessly. Powerful strokes of the beast's wings propelled it forward. It passed over Vilkas without paying any further notice to the Companion, lunging in pursuit of the small cone of light.  The Nord had had several hundred yards head start, but now the distance between him and the monster was dwindling rapidly, even as Vilkas was falling further and further behind, his horse blown and barely managing to keep up a gallop. 

 Gods, Wulf was such an idiot.  A very brave idiot and an accomplished fighter, a warrior facing his enemy with courage and in the end – a loyal companion.  And at that very moment Vilkas' greatest regret was that he had never apologized, never had the chance for them to become friends and - maybe something more. 

Spreading its huge wings, the dragon at last came to a stop, languidly rearing up in the air and effectively cutting off Wulf's further way. 

And Vilkas' heart stopped beating when he saw the small figure face down the dragon all on his own.


	13. BTS

Wulf's horse came to a sudden stop when the dragon rose in front of it, and Wulf was almost hurled over the animal's neck.  Only his tight grip on its mane kept him from sliding off and into an unscheduled meeting with the ground.  He went cross-eyed from the sharp pain when he was thrown forward with full force and busted his middle parts against the horse's bony withers.  _Oh, bloody sodding_... _fuck._

A deep rumble of amusement arose from the dragon as it beheld the man curling in pain and the pathetic beast of prey he sat upon.  They were where all mortals belonged: terrified, and at the dovah's feet.  The dragon would show them what awaited those that mocked it.  A slow, painful death to leave them writhing in pain would do nicely.  Their shrieks of agony would be like music to its eats.  The other mortal could wait.  The dovah would deal with the _joore_ in front of him first.  Let the other watch.  Let it be a lesson to him. 

Wulf looked up at the monster in front of, and above him.  His mount had frozen in fear, eyes rolled back, but he could feel it trembling beneath him.  He swore he heard the damned lizard laughing at him.  Now was the time to act.  Too bad he hadn't planned ahead; his mind was completely blank.  Why wasn't the dragon doing anything?  It just hung in the air, beating its wings lazily and regarded the warrior with one fiery eye.  Their gazes met and Wulf saw intelligence - and malice in them.  And then the spell was broken, and the dragon righted its head once more and its chest expanded in preparation for the fiery breath it was about to unleash on its victim. 

 oooo

Vilkas was bent low over his horse's neck, his gaze fixed on his quarry.  Four hundred yards.  He had to make it!  His mount fell into a trot, unable to keep the gallop up any longer.  White foam coated the mare's flanks and her neck where the reins rubbed against it. 

The dragon still hung motionlessly in the air and regarded the small figure beneath it, but all of a sudden, Vilkas saw it move again.  The Companion swore vehemently.  Three hundred yards still separated him from Wulf.  And now he had run out of time and worse, he had failed his shield-brother. 

 oooo

Unknowing that he was mirroring the dragon, Wulfryk drew in a deep breath of his own.  Lately he had been forced to rely on magic far too much, but he really had no choice this time.  At least the element of surprise was with him.  What was it that his Altmer patron had used to say?  'Fight fire with fire,' that had been it.  It had never made much sense, but today Wulf did just that, throwing two balls of fire at the beast.  He prayed to all the gods that were willing to listen for dragons not to be immune to fire – or magic. 

The dragon jerked back its reptilian head in surprise and thanks to its quick reflexes it narrowly avoided being hit by the fiery orb. 

Which was fine.  Because the attack was only a distraction. 

With the dragon's focus on avoiding having a part of its snout torn off, the second fireball hit true. 

The silence of the night was once more shattered when the dragon let out a bellow of fury and pain and – something else. 

' _YOL TOOR SHUL_ ' _  
_

The deadly jet of flame went astray, however, when the dragon unexpectedly lost height, spinning wildly, unable to keep still for even one moment.  Its right wing had been hit and a gaping hole was torn in the delicate membrane. 

 oooo

The last thing Vilkas expected was an explosion up in the sky.  He saw the flash of light and heard the dragon's roar, a single word forming in his mind and disbelief clouding his face.  Magic!  It had to be.  Not a second later he beheld the dragon breathing fire and for one moment, Vilkas' heart forgot how to beat.  His eyes roved over the plain frantically, but he could not spot Wulf.  Wait!  There was movement, a dark silhouette against the starry sky.  Behind it the dragon had begun to fall, beating its wings rapidly and spinning like the seed of an acorn.  In its fury, the monster released torrents of flame left and right, but after the storms not even the grass would burn properly.  A few small fires ignited and by their light Vilkas glimpsed Wulf riding hard through the smoke, back in the direction of their camp. 

The Companion turned his horse around and headed in the same direction, leaving the screeches of the angry, injured dragon behind in the distance.  Somehow they had gotten out of this fix alive and Vilkas knew he had to thank Wulfryk for that.  He would, as soon as he found the man. 

 oooo

By the time Wulf reached the camp, he no longer felt like fainting, but he could feel the sweat pour down his back, and his stomach heave.  This had been close.  Too close. 

He jumped from his panting mount on unsteady legs and begun to pack.  The Nord hurriedly gathered his belongings, and put the tack on his horse in what must have been record time.  A moment later he heard the muffled beat of hooves that announced Vilkas' arrival.  The big warrior dismounted and ran up to where now Wulf was standing bent over, bracing his hands on his knees and fighting the heaves, his spinning head, and the pain that began to blossom behind his closed eyelids. 

"Wulfryk!" the Companion shouted and Wulf felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him upright, steadying him.  "Wulf, are you hurt?" 

Concern shone in the big warrior's eyes.  At least that's what Wulf thought it was.  He knew Vilkas had to be shaken as badly as he was, if not worse.  After all, Wulf had already survived one dragon attack before.  And he had done more than ran away this time.  Shooting a dragon from the sky; if that did not make for a great tale, he did not know what would.  Therefore, he forced a smile on his face.  It was either that or coming apart for good.  "I'm... I'm alright," he panted. 

The whelp was fine.  Vilkas' first emotion was one of intense relief, closely followed by a feeling of great irritation.  He was fine and grinning like an idiot.  Which he was.  Grinning! 

"I... never... saw anybody do something so... ," Vilkas spluttered.  Brave, his mind supplied.  Bold.  Selfless.  "Incredibly stupid!" he roared, shaking the whelp.  "What in Oblivion were you thinking?!  You could have gotten yourself killed." 

"The idea was more to prevent _you_ from being eaten by the dragon," Wulf muttered, subdued by Vilkas' unexpected outburst.  It had worked and he could not understand why Vilkas was so very upset.  The Companion let go of him and Wulf staggered with the sudden loss of support.  An accusing finger was levelled at his face. 

"Why didn't you tell me you're a mage?" the big warrior wanted to know, angry now.  

"What does it matter?  And I'm not a mage," Wulf suddenly found himself on the defensive. 

"It does matter!" Vilkas ground out.  "It's dishonourable!"  Not to mention that magic and those who used it were a danger to all whom they associated with. 

"I'm sorry I only used it to save your sorry ass, then," Wulf cried in bewilderment. 

Vilkas seemed to come back to his senses slowly.  "Aye.  Thank you," he replied quietly. 

Wulf wondered if either of them had taken a blow to the head.  This entire situation was so ridiculous, it could not be real.  "You're welcome.  Can we please get the hell away from here, now?" he urged. 

Vilkas jumped into action at once.  He had no idea how he could have forgotten the dragon already.  He tore down their tent, tossed his armour and belongings on his horse and, leading the tired animals by the reins, they put as much distance between themselves and the monster as possible. 

After about an hour of walking Vilkas broke the silence, "So that was the dragon you saw at Helgen?" 

"No," Wulf answered.  "It wasn't nearly big enough," he finished. 

Vilkas looked like he was vaguely sick.  "Then it isn't only one dragon we're dealing with.  They have come back," he whispered.  "They have indeed come back." 

They did not speak again and they did not stop; not when dawn arrived and not throughout the following day.  When the sun began to set once more they were exhausted, stumbling alongside their horses that had recuperated better than their riders.  Vilkas' vision blurred by the time the road took them through a thick forest.  It was the best shelter they would find and they decided to rest here, not bothering to pitch the tent.  They just tossed it on the ground and crawled inside, and even Vilkas was out in the blink of an eye, insomnia or not. 

In the morning Wulf woke only because something heavy across his chest made breathing difficult.  That something turned out to be Vilkas.  He or maybe Wulf had turned around, and now the Companion used his fellow traveller as a pillow, head and arm resting on Wulfryk's chest.  His expression had softened in sleep and he looked younger.  Wulf took his sweet time to stare.  He knew he would not catch the big warrior off guard anytime soon again.  Neither of them had bothered to shave in the few days they had been on the road and thick stubble covered Vilkas' face, although it still was much shorter than Wulf's own beard.  The war paint the Companion used, had smeared and together with his tousled dark hair it gave him a roughish appearance that usually only showed in his brother. 

Wulfryk felt a distinct stirring of interest.  Vilkas might be a grumpy son of a snowtroll at times, but he was still a looker, and Wulf was just a man with had certain flesh-related urges.  Ones that weren't exactly getting any fulfilment by him lying next to the Companion and doing nothing about them.  But whether the Nord would welcome such attentions was anyone's guess.  He would have to find out. 

For now, should Wulf poke at him with an elbow and a manly grunt or enjoy the contact while it lasted?  He decided not to disturb the sleeping warrior.  Vilkas had gone nearly three days without sleep, but Wulf's reason was not that selfless at all. 

 

xxxx

 

The dragon that called itself Mirmulnir spread its wings and surveyed the damage done to them.  He had been on his way to his ancient home which lay amongst Skyrim's highest peaks when he had spotted the fire on the plains below.  It was not the way of the dov to fly after dark, but this time the circumstances certainly were unique.  Also, dragons did not feed at night, like some lowly predators that needed to slink up to their prey.  They were superior beings that had established their place at the top of the food chain millenia ago.  When they came, it was in broad daylight for everyone to see, and with a deafening roar to announce their coming and the imminent death of all that stood in their way. 

Mirmulnir had not been able to pass by this lovely chance to saw destruction and terror, however.  A little hunt to amuse himself and to taste fresh blood again, after the deprivation of ages.  But his prey had turned out to be far more resourceful than he had anticipated. Not only had it escaped the encounter unharmed, no, it had also had the gall and audacity to insult the mighty dovah and to ruin its right wing. 

The First-Born wanted him to attack the city of mortals, but he would have to wait as it would take some time for the membrane to heal.  And then, when he could fly once more, Mirmulnir swore to take his sweet vengeance upon the mortals. 

 

xxxx

 

Wulfryk and Vilkas continued their journey, but from now on they kept a close watch on the skies.  Every time there was movement, Vilkas felt his stomach drop and his pulse pick up a frantic pace.  Wulf wasn't off any better.  The shape of a bird, seen out of the corner of an eye, was enough to make him jump, hands on his sword and shield or, sometimes, writhed in flame. 

The eighth time it happened, Vilkas slung his sword once more over his back without comment and watched as Wulf put out the fire by simply clenching his hands.  The Companion still wasn't sure what to think about the magic.  It could be useful, yes, and only with its help had they been able to escape certain death, and yet Vilkas firmly believed that it and those who wielded it could not be trusted.  Anybody who possessed this kind of power would sooner or later feel compelled to expand it.  Vilkas knew firsthand of the horrors and abuse that power hungry mages could inflict on others. 

A few weeks ago Vilkas wouldn't even have thought twice.  He would have hated the whelp all the more, sneered down at him for not being able to fight like a true Nord: with steel and not foul tricks.  But Wulf had not used his magic to beat him in the training ring.  In fact, he had not used it at all during half the year he had spent amongst the Companions.  If he had, he wouldn't have been able to keep it secret; his shield-siblings all loved to gossip.  Except for Vilkas.  He cared little for hearsay and try as he might, he could not bring himself to hate Wulf.  Though, after the time they had spent together, he still did not know what to make of the man. 

The Companion risked another covert glimpse at the other Nord.  It wasn't his handsome face or stunningly blue eyes that drew Vilkas' attention.  Well, it wasn't _only_ them. 

Now that they were alone and there was nobody to brag to, Wulf was surprisingly quiet.  His overconfident smile had fallen away days ago and Vilkas was struck by the thought that for the first time he glimpsed the man behind the brash attitude and sharp tongue.  Wulf was calm and serene and focused on the job.  Professional.  The Companion liked the change.  Actually, against his former beliefs, the Nord was an easygoing travelling companion and a bottomless well of knowledge about the far dwellings of Tamriel, as well as a source of some of the most outlandish tales Vilkas had ever heard. 

He was still teasing occasionally, but the cruel streak that usually accompanied his humour was all but gone. 

They did not talk, not like they had done before.  Something between them had changed, and Vilkas was glad it was for the better.  To let the silence sink in would mean to let the dragon win, in a way.  They kept the conversation flowing, not willing to let the fear take hold of them again, to let it have power over them. 

"And to you, what does it mean to be a Companion?" Wulf asked one day, shortly before they reached their destination. 

Vilkas mulled over the question for a while before replying, "There's been a group called the Companions for over four thousand years.  It's been many different things in that time.  A conquering army.  Ruthless mercenaries.  A band of drunken louts." 

At this point Wulf snorted loudly, because whatever the Companions had been, he doubted there had ever been a time when they weren't drunken louts. 

Vilkas chuckled softly and in a slightly mocking voice he continued, "And the esteemed company you have met.  But there's always been honour to it.  We don't deal in politics or underhanded sneaking.  We try to uphold the legacy of Ysgramor. To bear his good name such that it never be forgotten, and always be spoken about with reverence." 

"That is a huge pile of rubbish, Vilkas," Wulf retorted.  "I asked about what the Companions meant to you, not for a lesson in history."

"They're family," Vilkas replied simply. 

"You don't have one of your own?" Wulf enquired cautiously.  It was an uncomfortable topic he had suddenly stumbled upon, and a sign of how much Vilkas' attitude towards him had changed when the Companion didn't rebuff him.  Or maybe the warrior's defences were down.  He hadn't been sleeping anymore. 

"I do, now.  And I've always had Farkas," the Companion answered softly. 

"How did you come to join the Companions?" Wulf asked, changing the topic somewhat.  He had already talked to Farkas, but he was curious as to what Vilkas would say.  As expected, their versions of the story differed from each other, as much as the twins themselves were different. 

"We were brought to Jorrvaskr by Jergen.  Whether he was our father or not, I don't care.  He left to fight in the Great War and never came back," Vilkas recounted briefly.  "We've been here for as long as either of us can remember, though."  It wasn't the entire truth, but Wulf didn't have to know that.  Farkas didn't remember a time before the Companions, but Vilkas did.  In addition, growing up amongst a group of people known for their skill in drinking and in killing had not always been easy.  In fact, it was not a place for children at all and the gods only knew how they would have turned out to be, if not for Tilma and Aela's parents.  "To hear Farkas tell it, our father raised us happy as pups, running around, biting knees.  I love my brother, but his brains are not his strong suit," Vilkas resumed. 

But there were good memories as well.  With a silent chuckle Vilkas told something he had heard too many times to count by now. "Kodlak was always fond of saying that my brother got Ysgramor's strength and I his wits." 

Wulf smiled.  "Because having brawns, brains and good looks would be too much to ask for?" 

Vilkas had begun to nod then broke off abruptly and stared at the man riding next to him.  Wait, what?!  He saw a small smile playing around Wulf's mouth.  Was the Nord... flirting with him?  Surely he must have misheard. 

If this was another of the man's jokes, he would punch the whelp's face in.  Why the thought of Wulf fooling around angered him so much, he did not know.  Because he was not interested in him, Vilkas thought, even as his stomach flipped, the sensation quite different from what he had felt when the dragon had attacked.  It was pleasant.  Joyful. 

All blood drained from Vilkas' face.  Oh.  Oh, gods, no.  He was _not_ developing a crush on the whelp.  He tried to call back to mind the hate he had harboured for the man when he had first met him, but his mind supplied him with different pictures of Wulfryk instead. 

Of how Wulf had faced a dragon to keep it from harming Vilkas.  Of the man who did not think reading to be a waste of time, or something only scholars did.  His skill in wielding the blade, his brash grin and even an image of a laughing Wulf on Mid-Year, when they had drunk together.  There were other clues as well.  His concern for the other man's safety.  Wulf was a Nord, a death on the field of battle would mean ascension to Sovngarde.  That was something to strive for, not to fear. 

_Oh gods._

Vilkas' stomach did another flip.  Damn the whelp!  He had never had this many conflicting feelings about anybody or anything else before, and certainly not this intense. 

When next Vilkas turned to face the man riding beside him, he saw that Wulf was observing his every move.  The other warrior raised his eyebrows as if in question and Vilkas swallowed thickly, blushing slightly. 

"So," Wulf began innocently enough, drawing out the first word. "Is there anybody special in your life?" 

There was.  His brother, but Vilkas knew that this was not what Wulf was asking about.  He did not want to talk about the private aspects of his life, but there was no reason not to.  Wulf's question was absolutely normal, simple friendly interest. 

"No, there is no one right now," Vilkas answered, trying to sound nonchalant.  But the whelp had to prod further. 

"Why not?" Wulf wanted to know.  "I think being a Companion would offer you a lot of opportunities." 

It did, usually.  Farkas could barely leave the mead hall and not be downright assaulted by women eager for his attention.  In his earlier years he too had had plenty of lovers and he and his brother had used to brag about their conquests, but that had been before his acceptance into the Circle. 

Vilkas was saved from further questions when Wulfryk spotted a tower in the distance and lost track of their conversation.  "Is that- ?" the warroir asked.  He never finished, because the fort they were headed for had no name. 

Vilkas frowned, regarding the lonely tower with a thoughtful expression.  "This must be it," he said more to himself than to Wulf.  They had followed Kodlak's directions and everything else fit.  The shape of the peaks that rose high above the foothills and the dense forest that surrounded them.  The gentle, rolling slopes further down.  They would approach under the cover of trees and leave the horses behind.  From there it would take them approximately two hours to reach the tower.  Once it might have had a commanding view of the valley, but now its owners had let the forest grow close.  It would make their mission so much easier, Vilkas thought. 

This was the moment he dreaded most.  He knew Wulf could hold his own in a fight, but they were shield-brothers now, responsible for each other's safety.  Soon they would discover whether they were well-matched or a complete disaster when it came to fighting together.  As Vilkas was the senior Companion and a member of the Circle, he was in command.  Theoretically.  Wulfryk was unpredictable at the best of times.  'If the whelp does not know how to follow orders,' Vilkas thought darkly, 'I will teach him.  The hard way, if necessary.'

For now there was no indication that Wulf meant to be trouble.  Their camp was dark tonight.  They sat together, discussing the plan for tomorrow. 

"Alright, whelp," Vilkas finally summarized and ignored Wulfryk's annoyed sniff at being addressed as such.  "We go in and you take out as many with your bow as you can.  Watch out for archers, especially.  I'll have your back and keep any fighters away from you.  The path up to the tower is narrow; two can barely walk abreast and none will make it past me," he said, sounding confident, and Wulf believed him.  "Once you're done shooting, circle around and take them on from the back.  And remember: we're here to retrieve the family axe and no harm's to come to the man who stole it.  He'll be the one in charge, the leader.  Is everything clear?" 

"Yeah," Wulf sighed.  He knew how this sort of thing worked.  Vilkas was the boss for now, and Wulfryk could respect that.  He had not stayed in his line of business for years by annoying his clients.  They lay down to rest shortly after. 

Vilkas was feeling more confident after their briefing and because Wulf's serious, professional demeanour was still in place.  They had worked out a tactic within minutes and there was not one point where they had disagreed.  Those bandits would never know what hit them, the Companion thought with no small measure of satisfaction. 

However, after another sleepless night and a painful headache in the morning, he was in decisively foul spirits.  Wulf sensed his mood and remained quiet for once as they buckled on armour and checked their weapons one last time.  Vilkas ran a whetstone along the blade of his sword, which would spill blood soon.  He was looking forward to the fighting.  It would do him good to vent his anger on their foes.  Unlike his fellow Companions, Vilkas had not suffered by being cooped up in Jorrvaskr.  But he too needed to let out the beast in him occasionally.  Men grew accustomed to bloodshed and eventually even to like it, and that was a monster of entirely human make. 

Vilkas adjusted the straps that held his greatsword to his back.  Wulf had his sword at his hip, his shield slung across his back, and a bow and arrows in his left hand.  They were ready.  The Companion nodded once and set out in front, his entire focus on his surroundings and the mission. 

 Everything went as planned until... until it didn't. 

 oooo

The fighting was going well and Wulf should have known that his good luck would not hold. Indeed, he ran out of it when he slipped over a patch of gravel, the small stones loose and rolling under his feet.  And then things went downhill, or rather the nobleman-gone-rogue did, and they could hear his screams dwindling in the distance as he fell down the mountainside.  _Whoops._

Except for a few tense sentences and Vilkas roaring, "You damned, stupid klutz!" when Wulf had almost slipped over the edge, they had not spoken again.  At least Vilkas had recovered the axe, but they were back to day one - only now it was Wulfryk glaring daggers at the Companion's back.  Vilkas had given him a lengthy lecture about how he would never be a Companion, and Wulf might have reacted badly to it.  The man had every right to be angry, and Wulf none to argue back.  But he did, even more so because he knew he was in the wrong.  And now, if possible, the rift between them was greater than ever. 

oooo

Vilkas fumed inwardly.  The fight had been less than satisfactory, the bandits ill equipped and of little skill.  Oh, and they had failed.  They had had two objectives. 

Vilkas had the axe.  He would let Kodlak have one educated guess as to who had managed to fuck up the second half of their mission.  Only, shield brothers went on assignments together.  They shared both the glory and the dishonour.  It meant that Wulf's stupid stunt would reflect badly on Vilkas.  Did the whelp care?  No!  And apparently he disagreed, because he had remained as blockheaded as ever.

In truth, this was what had driven the Companion livid.  Not the only half-successful mission, but the obtuse way Wulfryk had behaved about it.  Vilkas' consolation was that soon they would be back; Whiterun was so close, he could make out the distinct shape of Jorrvaskr already. 

oooo

"Look," Wulfryk began once more, because Vilkas had ignored his former attempts to apologise.  Wulf knew he had messed up big time, but, "It's not my fault the idiot decided to tumble down the cliff!" he cried in a mix of indignation and distress. 

"Of course it's your fault," Vilkas bit back, "You pushed him!" 

That wasn't true.  It wasn't entirely wrong either, though.  "I slipped," Wulf replied in a voice tight with anger, "And I grabbed the first thing- "

But Vilkas did not let him finish. "And you just happened to drag him over the edge, yes?" the big warrior retorted acridly. 

"YES!" Wulf bellowed back, startling his horse enough for it to fall into a quick trot, and he yanked on the reins in annoyance.  He'd had enough of the Companion's shitty attitude.  Vilkas had been right there, he knew Wulf wasn't lying.  "What is your bloody problem?!" he bellowed and when the big warrior did not reply he muttered dismally "Next time I'll throw down myself and you'll be rid of _my stupidity;_ and I of you." 

He never saw Vilkas blanch at the words, but the Companion collected himself quickly and only cooly asked him, "What are we going to tell our client?" 

"The truth," Wulf suggested.  "His hirelings had decided to deal with him before we arrived.  The end."

Vilkas narrowed his eyes in annoyance.  "You mean lie to them?" 

"Ermm," Wulf began, "Yeeees." He drew out the word like he was talking to an imbecile.  "It's not like they'll ever find out, or try to call the Companions out." 

They reached the stables and both men threw their reins at the stable master, whose eyes darted from one warrior to the other, before he decided he was better off with the horses.  On their way to the mead hall the crowd parted for the arguing pair, some giving them a wide berth and throwing anxious glances their way. 

"Your asinine ideas... "  Vilkas could not even finish, he was so much besides himself.  Now the whelp wanted him to lie about the other man's shortcomings.  "The honour of the Companions... ," he growled, with a shake of his head. 

The Companion kicked open the doors to Jorrvaskr and tossed the axe he had recovered at a very surprised and alarmed Torvar with a curt, "Hang onto this."  He pointed at Wulf and followed it up with, "Ask the whelp if you want to know about the noble's son," and stormed down the stairs. 

Wulfryk felt all eyes on him, knowing they had made an entrance like a raging hurricane.  "One of his hired thugs threw him off a cliff," he said curtly and hurried after Vilkas.  He wasn't done with the man, not by a long shot. 

"The honour of the Companions has not been besmirched by one idiot thief falling off the cliff," Wulf shouted after Vilkas, who came to a sudden stop. 

"What if they find out?" 

"So what if they find out?" Wulf cried, throwing his arms up in the air.  "Tell me, Vilkas, what are they going to do?  Refuse payment and risk a visit from one of us?"  Divines, he was dealing with one pig-headed mule.  "Would you shut up and listen?" he began, forcing his voice down. 

"No."  Vilkas wasn't willing to listen.  He wanted nothing but to be alone with a door between himself and the rest of the world.  The last time he had had a full night's sleep had been after the dragon attack - and more than a week had passed since then.  He was running on his last reserves, his mind and emotions all messed up.  What he really needed was to hunt, but he would not give in to the desires of the beast in him.  Not _this_ beast.  He would settle for distance from Wulfryk, before he did something stupid or drastic.  If he had to insult the man to get his peace, he would do so, but the whelp showed no sign of going away.  He saw Wulf pinching the bridge of his nose.  "Don't you have any fancy spell for that?" Vilkas sneered. 

"Indeed I do," Wulf retorted, "But since it's permanent, I'd watch out if I were you." 

By now their argument had spiralled downwards, anger and aggravation taking over until they were one step from name-calling.  Wulf was livid, Vilkas upset.  Suddenly Wulfryk decided he very much wanted to keep up the fight.  The short battle in the mountains had not been enough.  "Seriously, you have a stick up your arse bigger than that sword of yours," he spat. 

"Will you shut up and leave me alone?" Vilkas bellowed and there might have been a note of desperation in his voice.  The man was driving him absolutely insane.  He had hoped to escape to the sanctuary of his room, but there was no place where he could escape his feelings.  And now the whelp had followed him like a... a whelp.  Gods, he wanted to punch him for being a nuisance and a reckless idiot, for dragging down the name of the Companions and endangering Vilkas' own honour.  He wanted to hold him close, because it had almost been Wulf tumbling down that cliff and the very thought made Vilkas' chest clench like a vice. 

It was a reasonable request, but Wulfryk had never been one to listen to reason; especially not now that the other man had managed to get his blood boiling.  Instead he kept on, "You really need to get laid." 

"And you're the one to volunteer?" 

"If you ask nicely," Wulf answered sweetly.  What he needed was a good brawl.  He felt his blood soar with the fight to come and a grin form on his face.  He was expecting for his face to make a closer acquaintance with Vilkas' fist and he braced himself when Vilkas finally lost it, the warrior's entire weight slamming into him and knocking him against the wall, much like on the first day they had met.  Only back then the big warrior's hand wasn't fisting in Wulf's hair, and his pale eyes had lacked the predatory look they now had.  Interesting.  Wulf might have misjudged the situation, after all. 

There it was.  All the invitation Vilkas needed.  "Gods, you drive me crazy," the Companion growled and before Wulf could think of a clever retort like 'mate, you've been there long before I showed up', he silenced the other man in the most effective way: by sealing his lips to Wulfryk's. 

Wulf might have been aiming to provoke, but he wasn't prepared for what followed, and their teeth clicked together; the kiss was pure passion and pent-up frustration on Vilkas' side, and it lacked both grace and gentleness.  And then, a heartbeat later Wulfryk was responding, because Vilkas was now biting his lower lip and Wulf, not to be outdone, gave as good as he got. 

All the tension between them needed a release and they would find it in fighting or fucking and Wulf was no longer sure which was about to follow.  Wrapping one hand around the other man's neck, he pulled big warrior closer and deepening their kiss he let their tongues slide against each other, feeling Vilkas' warm saliva on his lips, and their noses bump.  The scrape of stubble and teeth led an edge to their actions, a sharp contrast to pliable lips and the soft sounds that were torn from both of them.  Wulf's other hand trailed down Vilkas' body, but they were still wearing armour and he could not get past the barrier of cold steel that separated them. 

The Companion's breastplate was digging into his chest, almost painfully so, and Wulf pushed away from the wall and, without breaking their kiss, he began to back away in the direction of Vilkas' room.  The warrior followed eagerly, not letting off for one heartbeat, his fingers tugging at the straps of Wulfryk's armour. 

If anyone went downstairs after them, they would get an eyeful.  Wulf's amused chuckle made Vilkas growl, "Get that armour off, whelp!"  Divines, he wanted, no, he needed to touch the man. 

He could smell the arousal pouring off the other man and his head was spinning from their closeness, or maybe it was from the lack of air.  It really had been too long, since someone had held him thus; had tangled fingers into his hair; breathed into him.  The fact that it was Wulf made any self control Vilkas might have had waver precariously. 

When they broke apart at last, both men were breathing heavily. 

"If you call me 'whelp' one more time," Wulf did not finish the threat.  He knew both of them were one heartbeat away from drawing their weapons and having at each other. 

Vilkas did not answer, but reached past Wulfryk's head and pushed open the door to his room.  It was dark inside, but through the lust that fogged his mind, the only thing he could see anyway was the man before him, his dark scowl and bruised lips.  The Companion navigated them inside, past his wardrobe and armour stand, his hands undoing his own straps now.  Vilkas was a very tidy person, but today he let his armour clatter to the ground in a heap, not caring in the least. 

Wulf watched avidly as the breastplate came off.  Vilkas was a dark silhouette against the weak backlighting of the corridor.  Not content to just observe, he moved close, mouthing at the warrior's neck for a while.  He could feel that the shirt and padding the Companion wore were soaked, but Vilkas smelled and tasted of fresh sweat.  Wulf grasped the hem of his clothes and when Vilkas lifted his arms, he pulled them over the Nord's head and both could hear seams rip. 

Vilkas shook his head. His usually neat, combed hair was a tangled mess and in his stubbled face his eyes were wild.  He did not look at all like the reserved, distant man he usually was, but more like a wild animal. 

And just like a hunter cornering its prey, he closed in, removing Wulf's armour, until his mouth could close on the Nord's shoulder.  He licked at first and then he kissed and finally bit the muscle, feeling the shudder that passed through the other's body and repeating the action with more force.  Apparently Wulfryk liked it rough, and Vilkas groaned, because if so, he wouldn't have to hold back; not this time. 

Wulf's hands had settled on the Companion's hips and he pulled their groins together, thrusting forward and through the fabric of their pants, they could feel each other's erections.  The warrior yanked lightly on Vilkas' tresses, pulling the man's mouth off his shoulder where he could now feel saliva cooling and a deep ache set in. 

Vilkas could see the imprint of his teeth on Wulf's flesh, although there was no other mark; Wulfryk's dark skin did not bruise easily.  The man in question kicked the door shut and it took only a few heartbeats until they were both completely naked and lying down on the bed, closely entwined.  They let their hands roam and explore each other's bodies as they rocked together gently.  Vilkas' mouth had sought out Wulf's once more and he tried to roll on top of the smaller Nord, but the other had wrapped his leg around the Companion's hips and after a short tussle they ended up with Vilkas lying on his back, supported by a pillow and Wulfryk on top, straddling him. 

They began to move together.  Slowly at first, then faster, using their hands to bring pleasure to each other.  Wulf felt the other man rub his cock against his ass and it was quite obvious what the Companion wanted, especially when he turned away, threw open the drawer of his nightstand and began to rummage around in it with one hand, as the other was busy working Wulf's manhood. 

Vilkas cursed under his breath when he could not find what he was looking for in the darkness, but suddenly the room was illuminated by a tiny flame that Wulfryk held in his palm.  He was looking overtly as Vilkas pulled out and opened a muscle salve he usually used for its intended purpose. 

Before Vilkas could apply any of it, Wulf leaned forward and, resting his arms on the warrior's shoulders, he effectively pinned the bigger man beneath him.  He bent low, licking the Companion's jaw and tugging at his earlobe with his teeth, before he whispered in his ear in a deep voice that sent shivers down Vilkas' spine,

"If you want to fuck me, Vilkas, you better make me want it."

Vilkas swallowed thickly, the words sending all blood straight to his groin.  "You're going to leave that on?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the small, flickering light that hovered in the air. 

"Yeah," Wulf answered.  "I want to watch."  He ran his fingertips lightly over Vilkas' lips, grinning naughtily in anticipation. 

Vilkas dipped his head, the other man's scrutiny made his cheeks flare, but he knew that the bedroom was not a place for pride.  Sex was about losing control, not keeping it; and about pleasure.  His own and almost more importantly, his partner's.  Vilkas let himself sink lower, until Wulf was kneeling above his chest and, supporting himself on his elbows, he leaned forward, nuzzling the inside of Wulfryk's thigh.  He felt the muscles clench and flutter under the feather light touch of his lips, heard the other man's sharp hiss. 

But Vilkas did not tease for long, turning his attention to Wulf's neglected manhood instead.  He licked at first and then he took the length of it into his mouth, sucking lightly and able to taste salty skin and bitter fluid.  The sounds Wulfryk made alone were worth it Vilkas breathed in the intense, musky smell, losing himself in the simple action of dealing out bliss. 

He went at it for a while and when his own desire became too prominent to ignore, he dipped his fingers into the salve, his intention to prepare the other man for the intrusion to come.  Vilkas wanted to be tender now, because he wouldn't be afterwards, but Wulf encouraged him to go harder, to push his fingers deeper and to add another one, not shy to voice his desires. 

It did not take long until neither could wait anymore and Vilkas quickly greased himself up, pulled off Wulf's cock and wriggled back into a position that allowed them to line up.  Wulf sank down slowly and they both moaned when their bodies joined and Vilkas' eyes closed of their own accord. 

He was lying back, enjoying the friction and the heat, until Wulf began to move leisurely and his own hips buckled in answer. 

The Companion's mouth fell open and his head back, and Wulf leaned forward to run his teeth along the column of his throat, drawing a deep moan from the warrior, before righting himself once more.  Vilkas' hands on his hips guided him, showing him what felt good to the Companion.  He rose slowly and sank down faster, rotating his hips in a circular motion from time to time, because it felt good and made Vilkas' breath stutter. 

Their pace quickened, Vilkas' hips slamming upwards, keeping in rhythm with Wulf's own movement.  The big warrior's hands clenched around his hips, but they were now slick with sweat and in an attempt to find purchase the Companion's short nails raked across Wulf's skin, adding to the multitude of sensations.  The wet sounds of their bodies slapping together were almost obscene in the silence of the room, only accompanied by their harsh breathing and the occasional moan. 

Wulf could not suppress a hoarse shout when Vilkas got the angle just right, knowing that others were probably able to hear them fucking and not giving a damn.  He scratched the Companion's chest and was rewarded with another hard thrust. 

Vilkas watched sweat drip from Wulf's hair and run down his chest, the beads of moisture collecting where they connected.  Wulfryk's head fell forward, his eyes hooded and glazed with ecstasy and Vilkas tried to repeat the motion that had made the other man cry out.  He was rewarded when his lover began to tense up, clenching down on him and with a start the Companion realized that he himself was only heartbeats from toppling over the edge himself.  There was only one thing he lacked and with some effort he pushed himself up, and Wulf down, smashing their mouths together.  When Wulfryk's struck his tongue down Vilkas' throat, all the big warrior could do was hang on as his orgasm washed over him.  Distantly he felt his lover spasm around him, the tightness drawing out and intensifying his pleasure, as much the smell and feeling of Wulf's own seed spilling between them. 

'They were surprisingly well timed,' was the only coherent thought Vilkas managed when white specks no longer danced in front of his eyes, closely followed by, 'When had their fingers intertwined?' 

Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed the Companion and he let himself fall back against the pillows, one arm thrown across his face, chest heaving.  He often had been afraid to hurt his partners, to lose control, but with Wulf he had not cared and it had turned out to be the best sex he had had in a very long time.  Vilkas sighed when his softening cock left the heat of his lover's body, slipping out with a soft, wet sound. 

He would have been content to sleep, but movement next to him ripped him out of his post-coital bliss.  Vilkas blinked open one eye and he saw that Wulf was now sitting up, sorting through his clothing and quite obviously preparing to dress and leave. 

Vilkas was not expecting the sudden feeling of loss.  It hit him like a charging horse. Usually he was content to be on his own, but he did not want to be alone now, did not want Wulf to leave, not after what they had shared. 

It took a great deal of effort for him to lift his arm and stretch it out towards the man he had just done a whole lot more with than just held hands.  It was absurd, really, to fear rejection at this point. 

When Vilkas ran his fingers gently across the back of Wulf's hand, the other Nord looked up and Vilkas was taken aback by his face that utterly lacked emotion.  He should ask, but his damned pride was in his way again, so instead Vilkas tugged on Wulf's hand, hoping the Nord would understand. 

He thought he could see something shift behind Wulf's eyes, and so he tugged once more, insistently this time.  Wulf complied with his unvoiced plea and though the cold mask had fallen away, the look on his face was still guarded as he let himself tilt slowly and sank down next to Vilkas.  They did not look at each other, maybe because that way they would not have to acknowledge whom they were sharing the bed with. 

Sex was easy.  It happened in the heat of the moment. It was fever and passion and sometimes even violentce, but to rest together there had to be a level of trust their... relationship... lacked.  Vilkas still did not know where they stood.  Now, more than ever, things would get complicated.  In the aftermath of their heated coupling, however, he was not willing to face what would slap him in the face tomorrow morning, once they had sobered up and lust no longer fogged their minds.  For one night, the Companion wanted to enjoy what they had. 

Vilkas shifted, pulling Wulf closer and the smaller Nord tucked his head under Vilkas' chin and the Companion could feel his warm breath against his chest.  The little magical light of his had gone out a while ago, plunging the room back into darkness, and now Wulf's fingers twitched at the warrior's side and the other man's breathing had already taken on the deep, slow rhythm of sleep. 

Vilkas buried his nose in Wulf's hair.  He smelled of sweat and the musk of sex, and something Vilkas could not place.  Something that was entirely Wulfryk.  It was dangerous.  It was intoxicating.  Vilkas' eyelids grew too heavy for him to keep open and so he let them close, yawning widely.  His last thought before sleep claimed him was how well their bodies fit together.


	14. BTS

Farkas nervously paced up and down in front of the closed door.  The Circle meeting should have begun hours ago, but not all members were accounted for as of yet.  So he had been sent by Kodlak to get his brother, because Vilkas handled most of the clients, dealt out assignments, and was responsible for the logbooks.  The Harbinger had gradually begun to pass on his duties to his brother, but Vilkas must have forgotten about the meeting; something that had not happened before. 

And now Farkas was staring at the damned door, debating what he should do.  He had tried knocking – twice - but he had received no answer and was running out of ideas.  Usually, he wouldn't think twice about entering his brother's room, but after yesterday's events he was hesitating to do so.  It was one thing to know what was going on behind closed doors and quite another to walk in on it, especially when one of the participants was your twin. 

For now things were quiet, unlike on the evening before, when he had heard shouting and stuck his head out of his room to see what was going on, because one of the voices undoubtedly belonged to his brother.  So he and Wulf had returned and both seemed unharmed, judging by their eagerness to pick another fight.  Farkas had been about to step out and break up the argument when Vilkas and Wulfryk began to make out quite passionately, right there, in the corridor. 

Farkas smiled.  Maybe they would figure out things on their own, although it had taken them quite a lot of time so far.  He resisted rolling his eyes.  And people called _him_ dim-witted. 

He almost retreated back into his room, but here was a commotion upstairs and a few seconds later Aela stormed down the stairs, just as the pair disappeared into Vilkas' room.  But the door was exactly what the Huntress was making for, muttering darkly under her breath, "Who does he think he is, treating Torvar like that?!  I’ve had it with his moods, he's worse than a virgin on her monthlies!!" 

Farkas jumped into action at once and found himself in front of his brother's room, arms stretched out and blocking Aela's way. 

She only cast one scalding glare at Farkas and, fighting to keep her voice level, she said, "I have an axe to grind with your brother.  Let me through," she demanded. 

Farkas swallowed thickly.  If she were any angrier, her red hair might just have caught fire.  Staring back wide-eyed at the woman that did not even reach his shoulder, he could only shake his head. 

"This is not the time for one of your jokes!" Aela scolded.  "Let. Me. Through!" 

She positively scared him.  Farkas just murmured, embarrassed, "You don't want to go in there." 

From behind the door both could hear the clatter of armour hitting the ground. 

"Why?  Because they are fighting?" she snorted.  After a split-second of consideration, Aela's look turned from livid to thoughtful.  "Vilkas wouldn't fight without his armour."  She tilted her head to the side.  "What is going on in there?" Aela suddenly asked, sounding intrigued now instead of angry. 

Farkas knew his face must be bright red.  "They... ehmm... ," he scratched his head. 

"Yes?" 

"They need some time alone," the Companion finished.  There was another thump and something that sounded like a growl, followed by – the creak of the bed? 

"Oh."  Aela's eyes grew wide.  " _Oh_."  Her irritation seemed forgotten, and Farkas thought it was safe for him to lower his arms and step to the side.  He had been wrong.  As soon as the big warrior was no longer in her way, the Huntress darted for the keyhole, pressing her face against the wood and peeking through. 

"That's a nice view," she purred, grinning. 

"Hey!"  Farkas knew that snooping in on other people wasn't nice; he had heard enough of Tilma's lectures on the matter.  So he grabbed his shield-sister by the middle, lifted her up and turning around he put her down on the other side, his body once more a shield between her and the door; ready to defend his brother's dignity.  "Do you know how rude that is?" 

"Oh, come on!" Aela said with a playful pout.  "It's just Wulf, he wouldn't mind." 

"No, but Vilkas would," Farkas countered and crossed his arms across his broad chest. 

"Spoilsport," she sulked, but did not attempt to get past him again. 

After he had stopped Aela from barging in, Farkas had dealt with an annoyed Torvar, an amused Athis, and a very confused Ria.  What an interesting evening.  Farkas could honestly say that Jorrvaskr needed more of those. 

Only, he wished he knew what to do in the morning.  He paced back and forth once more and, bracing himself, he pushed down the handle, opening the door a crack wide and peeking in cautiously.  It was dark inside, and quiet.  It wasn't that bad, if one didn't mind the smell.  Farkas tiptoed inside, but his effort was for naught when he stumbled across Vilkas' discarded breastplate with a loud clatter.  An unhappy groan came from the direction of the bed.  Farkas looked around.  He really did not want to get too close, he already felt like he was intruding.  So the warrior grabbed a booklet from the desk, one with a cover of soft leather, and threw it at his brother's sleeping form. 

It hit him square in the face and Vilkas shot up with a sharp intake of breath.  Farkas did not feel any remorse.  Served him right.  This was retribution for the chair.  "The Circle has called a meeting, remember?" he said in greeting while Vilkas blinked up at him questioningly, rubbing his eyes. 

"Why now?  Couldn't they wait until a decent hour?" Vilkas complained without showing any sign of getting up. 

Next to him Farkas could make out Wulf stirring.  "Would you two shut up?" he grumbled in a voice thick with sleep. 

Farkas decided to ignore him.  "It's past midday, brother," he answered instead and had the satisfaction of watching Vilkas' jaw drop.  "You've overslept." 

"What?" his brother gasped, and suddenly his eyes went wide and he flailed with his arms in the air whilw Farkas curiously watched his strange actions.  Suddenly Vilkas landed in a naked heap at Farkas' feet.  The Companion saw one of Wulf's feet disappearing under the covers, before the Nord turned around with a huff off annoyance and pulled the blankets closer around himself. 

From the floor, Vilkas cast a hurt look at the sleeping warrior and frowned at Farkas.  "Give me a few minutes," his brother grunted and Farkas happily returned to his own room to wait.  'Mission accomplished,' he thought, feeling proud of himself.  Shortly later he heard Vilkas' knock and together the twins went upstairs.  

Farkas looked at his brother out of the corner of his eyes.  He had not shaved yet and his hair was unkempt, although he had pulled it back with a band of leather.  Not his own, though.  Vilkas wasn't wearing any shoes and his shirt had a tear at the side that he apparently had not noticed.  But the most prominent of all changes was the ghost of a smile that played around his mouth; a small spark in his eyes; the way he held himself: loose and relaxed.  This was a man Farkas had not seen in a long time.  He had missed him, the brother who had once masterminded their pranks on the other Companions and who had stood guard or distracted the others while Farkas put them into action.  There had been glimpses here and there, but Farkas had believed him lost a long time ago to their work, the Circle, the anger.  The beastblood.  But today, more than ever; Vilkas resembled that man. 

"Had a good night?" the taller of the twins could not help but ask. 

He saw the corner of Vilkas' mouth twitch upwards, before his brother broke into a full smile.  "Aye." 

Farkas grinned back.  It was good to see Vilkas so carefree.  He never allowed himself to let go anymore, to lower his guard even for a little while, always conscious of the consequences his actions might have.  Slowly but undeniably it was wearing him down. 

Farkas loved the old man, but Kodlak should never have urged him to take on the responsibility over the Companions.  Especially not after burdening him with all the talk about his soul and Sovngarde... 

The big warrior was ripped out of his thoughts when they entered the back room where Vignar lived and where the Circle meetings were held.  Skjor, Kodlak and Aela were already there and looked to be bored out of their minds. 

Vilkas was greeted by Skjor's dark glare.  "Slept well?" the elder Companion asked sarcastically, but despite the tone there was little heat behind the words, the warrior knew.  He knew Skjor well enough by now to know his friend felt obligated to tease him for his lapse. 

"Leave off, Skjor.  Poor thing must've been worn out."  Aela's grin was entirely too knowing. 

Skjor just furrowed his brows, knowing that he was missing out on something.  

Vilkas fell into a chair and propped his feet up on another one, fully prepared to half-sleep through this meeting.  Although they all helped out, the workload always became too much eventually and had to be dealt with.  Together, they sorted through assignments both finished and not, assessed the trustworthiness of new clients, collected their letters and compared them to the logbooks.  Massagers had to be sent out to inform their clients and payment had to be collected. 

Then, there was Jorrvaskr's balance and its account that had to be managed.  The Companions as a whole were wealthy, but they also spent lots of coin on food, drink, weapons, armour, messengers and the occasional repair works that had to be done around the mead hall.  Furthermore, all Companions and those who worked for them had to be paid.  It meant juggling lots of numbers and random facts. 

Farkas was yawning after five minutes and Vilkas found himself drifting off.  He still answered any questions directed at him, but his thoughts were occupied by something else entirely.  The man sleeping in his bed, mostly.  Was Wulf still there?  Did he want him to be?  Secretly, Vilkas was glad his brother had dragged him off. In afterthought he knew that he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to behave towards the other man. 

Would things change now that they had been intimate?  Or would they go their separate ways, pretending that nothing had happened?  It wouldn't be easy, considering how close they were by simply being Companions.  Although Wulf wasn't, not yet.  Funny how Vilkas thought of him as he would of any other shield-brother, even though he had not yet been put to the test. 

Skjor's voice made him listen up all of a sudden.  "Vilkas, do you have the logbook from the first half of the year?  I believe the Turgraf family still owes us money." 

Vilkas reached for the table, only to remember he had forgotten to bring any of the books.  "No," he answered slowly, "They're still downstairs." 

"Don't you want to go and get them?" Aela prompted eagerly. 

"Aye," he responded, absent-mindedly, until he realized that no, he absolutely did not want to go there!  Did his shield-sister just wink at him?  Wait!  Something was underfoot. 

Whatever it was, Kodlak was oblivious to it.  Instead of sending Vilkas away immediately, the Harbinger said, "No need to go now, Vilkas.  Let us take care of what we can without them, we'll have a break later and you can go get the books." 

Vilkas breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, but his stomach cramped when Kodlak addressed the last thing he wanted to talk about: Wulfryk.  Of course the others would be curious.  Vilkas was fully aware that his word might decide whether Wulf even got the chance to join the Companions.  With a deep breath Vilkas began to accurately recount their latest mission, aware that he was stalling. 

Used to their shield-brother's thorough, analyzing nature, the other Companions listened, until Kodlak ran out of patience and finally asked, "Well, how did he perform?" 

Aela suddenly burst out laughing and Farkas had to bite his hand to stifle his chuckles.  Vilkas just leaned back, balancing the chair on its back legs and, with his head thrown back, he grinned up at the ceiling.  "Quite well," he answered with a straight face when Kodlak looked at him in expectation and quite a bit of curiosity. 

"Ah, I see... ," the Harbinger sighed and rubbed his eyes at Farkas' and Aela's sniggering. 

"I feel left out," Skjor complained and Aela leaned over to whisper in his ear and bring him up to date.  He listened alertly and nodded, but suddenly his eyes went wide and he stared at Vilkas and burst out, "You did WHAT?!"

Vilkas did not deign to answer; Skjor knew full well _what_.  However, the Companion's disbelief quickly turned to suspicion.  "About the whelp making a suitable shield-brother; are you sure it's your head talking and not your dick?" 

The anger that suddenly coursed through Vilkas' blood was so much more familiar than this state of ease he had found himself in since morning.  He let his chair fall back on all four legs with a loud thump to empathise his following words.  "The 'whelp' has a name," he growled.  "And to keep his fellow Companion from harm he challenged and fought off a _dragon_!" he added in a low voice.  "Can you deny his bravery, Skjor?  His loyalty?" 

Skjor couldn't and he didn't, which did nothing to change the fact that Vilkas probably didn't have his head screwed on right.  He might have laughed at the pun, if the big warrior wasn't staring at him, daring him to speak up against the whelp.  Skjor lifted his hands in surrender.  The radical change in Vilkas' attitude was unexpected, but then he had had a lot of time to get to know their newblood better.  "I trust your judgement, Vilkas and I will respect your choice," he placated the angry Nord.  "If you trust Wulfryk and are of opinion he would make a suitable Companion, then he is also a shield-brother of mine and I will not speak ill of him." 

Vilkas nodded, appeased.  The irritation had abided.  How could he blame Skjor when he himself had hated and doubted Wulf for so long? 

Farkas let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.  It looked like Wulf was a touchy subject for his brother, if he had almost started an argument on behalf of him.  When they voted at last, Farkas cast his voice in favour of his friend being allowed to take the test. 

They continued for a while, until Farkas heard his stomach growl; it was high time for a meal. 

Kodlak must have heard, or maybe he knew them so well he dismissed them with a faint smile and the words, "It seems, a break is in order." 

Vilkas ate, he talked to the other Companions and when he no longer could find any excuses, he slowly went to his room.  His heart was pounding by the time he reached the door.  He berated himself for being this nervous and quickly, and with more force than necessary, he entered and walked up to the desk.  Only, it was occupied. 

His room was Vilkas' sanctuary, a place for him to retreat from the rest of the world, but now that he had let someone in, the Nord felt caged.  "You're still here?" he asked, surprised.  It had been several hours since he had left.  He cast a glance to the bed which was messy and unmade. 

Wulf looked dishevelled, like he had just gotten up.  He was also naked.  The Nord had been leafing through the very book Vilkas had been about to retrieve, but now he looked up, yawned and nodded.  "I just wanted to say I'm sorry." 

The good mood Vilkas had felt since he had woken up evaporated within the blink of an eye.  "Sorry it was so bad for you," he replied cooly. 

"It wasn't nice, but you certainly got it worse," Wulfryk admitted with an apologetic smile. 

They weren't making any sense.  Carefully, Vilkas enquired, "What are you talking about?" 

"Me being an idiot on our mission, of course," Wulf replied like it was obvious.  "What are _you_ talking about?" 

"Eh, nothing," Vilkas muttered.  Damn, but this was awkward.  Was he supposed to say something more?  Instead, Vilkas busied himself rummaging about in a cabinet above the desk and pulled out a bottle of mead that he put in front of Wulf.  "Here.  Somebody once told me it's supposed to make you feel better."  Hopefully it would distract the other man from him. 

Wulf raised his eyebrows when he heard Vilkas use his own words.  "Clever bastard, that one.  You should listen to him more often," he supplied with a smirk and tipped his head back and raised the bottle to his lips. 

Vilkas snorted, but his attention was diverted by the way Wulf's throat moved as he drank the mead.  He swallowed thickly and had to clasp his hands behind his back to keep from reaching out towards the other man.  Gods, how he wanted to!  To run his fingers over his bare skin, knowing it would be warm and smooth, dusted with hair at the chest and one or another scar.  He wanted to hold him, kiss him maybe.  Of all the things they had done yesterday that had been one Vilkas had enjoyed immensely; Wulfryk kissed like he meant it.  But there was no sign that today he wanted anything more than a friendly chat. 

'Pull yourself together, fool,' Vilkas thosught and grabbed the logbook he had come for, ready to make his escape.  He should warn Wulf ahead, though.  "You should get ready," the Companion spoke up.  "There's another task that awaits the Companions." 

Hearing the words, Wulf smiled up at him.  "When do we leave?" 

Did he – did he want to journey with Vilkas again?  It had been uncomfortable as hell at first and at the end, but admittedly, they had had a good time together most of the time.  Vilkas would be happy to have Wulf along on another adventure.  Only, it wouldn't be this one.  "You're not going with me," the Companion said, trying hard to mask his regret.  "The Circle thought my judgement might be biased, because of what has happened between us.  Farkas has agreed to be your shield-brother." 

"Alright," Wulf replied guardedly and Vilkas was pleased to detect a slight trace of disappointment in his voice. 

Ysgramor's hairy jewels, Vilkas needed to get out of here before he lost his mind completely and did something he'd regret later.  Like beg the Circle to reconsider their choice and let him go with Wulf.  He tried hard not to think what it would be like, just the two of them on the road again, and failed miserably.  He had to get this over with, and quick. 

"Go to Vignar's room, the Circle is waiting for you.  And put on some clothes!" he added with a vague hand motion at the other man, before he fled upstairs.  Not that _he_ minded Wulf's state of undress; it was most pleasing to the eye, but Aela might like it a bit too much. 

He shouldn't have worried. When Wulf joined the meeting some time later, he looked more respectable than Vilkas did.  It wasn't the big warrior that greeted him though, but Skjor.  "Last week a scholar came to us," he began without preamble.  "He said he knew where we could find another piece of Wuuthrad.  I trust you know what it is." 

"Ysgramor's axe," Wulf replied.  Ria had told him all about the Companions and the hero who had started the them, as well as his legendary weapon. 

Skjor nodded once, satisfied and continued, "He seemed a fool to me, but if he's right, the honour of the Companions demands that we seek it out.  This is a simple errand, but the time is right for it to be your trial.  Carry yourself with honour and you'll become a true Companion."  

Wulf grinned broadly; Vilkas hadn't mentioned that he was finally being given the chance to join the Companions.  At least he got along with Farkas all of the time.  The warrior in question waved at him happily.  Vilkas wouldn't meet his eyes, but Aela seemed unable to look away, and Skjor's and Kodlak's expressions were hard to read.  

After a pause for effect, Skjor resumed.  "Farkas will be your shield-brother on this venture and he'll answer any questions you have after the meeting is over.  Try not to disappoint.  Or get him killed," he added with a sideways glance at the man's twin. 

"I'll see you later, Wulf," Farkas called after him when Wulfryk turned to leave, knowing he was being dismissed. 

Behind him, Skjor's voice rang out once more "Did you remember to get the logbook, Vilkas?"  Through the closed door Wulf heard the smack of something hard and a surprised shout, followed by the sound of a chair toppling over. 

 oooo

The rest of the meeting was as boring as ever, although at least Vilkas did not have to put up with Skjor's teasing anymore, after he had shot him down.  After all, he and Aela encouraged him to let out the beast at times, and Vilkas did not even feel sorry for the gross abuse of a valuable book. 

It was towards the end of the meeting that he became increasingly uneasy.  When they finally broke up late at night, Vilkas' feet carried him down and through the corridor of their own accord.  It wasn't his own door he ended up in front of, but Farkas'.  With a sigh Vilkas raised his hand and knocked. 

"Yes?" Farkas' deep voice rang out. 

"A word, brother," Vilkas replied. 

The door opened at once and Farkas stepped out, looking like he was ready to leave.  "I wanted to visit Wulf, tell him about the trial," the warrior explained. 

"Before you do that, could I talk to you?" Vilkas insisted. 

His brother shrugged and motioned for him to enter his room.  Vilkas did and wrinkled his nose immediately.  Farkas' room was the picture of what Vilkas imagined Oblivion must be like.  All chaos, clothes and weapons strewn around, empty bottles lying in the corne,r and on a silver tray on the nightstand there was a pile of stale sweetrolls that his brother must have pilfered from the kitchen.  Farkas really knew how to let himself go, but in this mess he was as happy as a pig wallowing in mud.  It was no wonder this room attracted more spiders then the rest of Jorrvaskr.  And it was Vilkas' duty to get rid of them. 

He should light a fire under his brother's rear and make him clean up to spare Tilma the horrors of this room, but that was not why Vilkas was here tonight. 

"What do you know about Dustman's Cairn?" 

"It's just an old tomb," Farkas answered negligently, his attention on the stack of sweets.  He took one roll, bit into it and through a mouthful he said, "It's nothing I haven't seen before." 

"Listen," Vilkas urged, "I want you to be alert; don't do anything stupid or reckless.  And for heaven's sake, watch your back!" 

"I'll have Wulf to watch my back," Farkas countered. 

"Don't rely on it."  Vilkas tone was serious, brooking no argument.  

Farkas felt himself bristle at the insinuation.  "Is this about Wulfryk again?" he wanted to know, annoyed that his brother would bring up that topic again.  "I thought you trusted him after what he did for you." 

"It's not about Wulf," Vilkas sighed. 

"Good.  He's my friend."  And Farkas would protect him, although, if he wasn't what had Vilkas upset, then what did?  Ah, of course!  He was leaving and Vilkas was not going with him.  That must be it. 

Vilkas continued, unknowing that Farkas had looked right through him.  "He's not as nice as you believe him to be!  Do you even know why he calls you 'Bright'?" his brother prompted. 

"Wulf says it's because I'm cheerful," Farkas explained, indulgingly.  "That's why you are 'Grumpy'." 

Vilkas ran a hand over his face.  Sometimes his brother could be so blind.  "He calls you 'Bright' because he believes you're too stupid to get the joke," he forced out. 

"What joke?"  Farkas sounded hurt. 

Vilkas had to resist the sudden urge to slam his head against the wall in frustration.  Wulf had chosen a fitting nickname, he had to admit.  "Never mind," he said, shaking his head.  "Just be careful, yes?" 

But it seemed Farkas had already forgotten that train of conversation and complained, "Why is it always me who has to be careful?  Why don't I ever get to lecture you?" he whined. 

"You know I'm the elder," Vilkas replied calmly. 

"Only by minutes, brother," Farkas reminded his twin. 

"That still counts," Vilkas responded and ruffled his brother's hair.  Farkas was the only family he had.  Kodlak was like a father to them and Tilma had practically raised them, but the bond they shared was special.  He honestly did not know how he would go on if something happened to his twin. 

"Promise me you'll be careful," he once more whispered against Farkas' temple, after he kissed his brother's brow in a rare gesture of affection.  It wasn't what he wanted to say, but he knew he could not ask for more. 

"I will, you have my word," Farkas whispered, because he knew that in their profession the one thing neither of them could ever promise was to come back.


	15. BTS

"Hello, Bright.  So I've heard that you're going to be my shield-brother."  Wulf yawned and stretched, in no hurry to get up even after Farkas had robbed him of his covers and pillow.  It was still too darn early and he had just returned from one mission; he should be allowed to have some time to rest.  But Farkas looked about ready to begin poking him with that huge sword of his, and with a heavy sigh to show everyone how much he was suffering, he rolled out of bed. 

"Satisfied?  I'm not going anywhere without a proper breakfast," Wulf grumbled and shuffled to a water basin to give his face a scrub. 

Farkas firmly believed that he was dragging his feet on purpose, to punish him for the gross transgression of waking him up. 

"Breakfast's upstairs," the big warrior said, tapping his foot impatiently.  At this rate they wouldn't leave before midday, but he hadn't anticipated the difficulties of getting a cranky and tired Wulf to leave the bed.  Compared to it, retrieving the fragment of Wuuthrad would be easy. 

As professional as Wulfryk was when he was working, he was a total slob in his free time. 

Against Farkas' expectations, they did set out shortly after.  The big warrior mounted a veritable giant of a horse; a heavily muscled brown with long, sleek legs and a curtain of white hair at the fetlock.  The horse stood taller at the withers than Wulf and it carried Farkas, his armour and belongings with ease.  Wulf's own mount looked almost fragile in comparison, which didn't stop it in the least from tossing its head and trying to pick a fight.  It reconsidered after the big gelding snapped its teeth in warning and settled for sullenly laying back its ears. 

"Tell me, Bright, where is it we're going, exactly?" Wulf enquired after they had ridden for a few minutes in silence. 

"Dustman's Cairn," Farkas replied right away. 

Dustman?  The word rang some bells with Wulf.  Where had he heard that expression before?  The memory came back, slowly.  A dark corridor he crouched in, Ralof at his side.  A man with a thick beard.  Soling.  And a woman that stood with her hand on the bandit's shoulder.  Her words flittered through Wulf's consciousness.  _"There's nothing left here for us, only dustmen to fight."_  

They were heading for another bloody tomb, probably full of the undead.  Joy of joys.  Wulf groaned inwardly. 

If Farkas noticed his companion's distress, he showed no sign of it.  Blithely, he continued "It's an ancient Nord tomb, four days' ride from here, maybe five." 

"And you know a piece of Wuuthrad is there because a scholar came and told you?" Wulf asked in disbelief.  "Who was this scholar?" 

"A smart man," Farkas answered with a smile in his voice.  "It is no secret that the Companions seek to restore Ysgramor's weapon.  We offer rewards for information and many come to help, through most leads turn out to be a waste of time.  This one though looked promising, so Skjor thinks you should follow it, and I'm supposed to watch you." 

Wulf thought maybe Skjor just wanted for him to get lost, but kept that opinion to himself.  "If you say so, Bright." 

They rode on and after a while Farkas cleared his throat to get Wulf's attention.  "So, you and my brother..."  The big warrior let the rest of the sentence hang in the air. 

It didn't matter, as Wulf had a fairly good idea where this was going anyways. 

"I told you he liked you," Farkas threw in before Wulf could say anything. 

Not that this was a topic he wanted to discuss.  Not with Vilkas' brother, even if Farkas was his friend.   _Especially_ because they were friends.  It just didn't feel right. 

"How do you know?"  The question was out of Wulf's mouth before he had a chance to reconsider.  "You didn't listen at the door, did you?" 

Farkas glowered at him in answer.  "I didn't have to," the big warrior replied.  "Our rooms are next to each other and you didn't exactly keep quiet." 

Oh, Gods!  That was one more detail Wulf would have been happy to be ignorant about.  It was high time to change the subject, but apparently Farkas didn't see it that way, asking the one question that almost made Wulf fall out of the saddle when he rapidly turned to face the speaker. 

"Are you lovers now?" 

"What!?"  Wulf heard his voice rise in panic.  "Heavens, no!  There's nothing between us; it was just a quick roll in the sheets!" he clarified.  "No reason to bring feelings into this," he muttered silently enough Farkas' ears shouldn't have been able to pick up those last words. 

The big warrior gave no clue to have heard, indeed there was no reaction from him at all as he stared straight ahead.  With the life he led, he was the last person who would begrudge somebody a quick romp, but this was his brother they were talking about and somehow that changed things. 

Wulf would have breathed a sigh of relief that the questioning was over, except that he could feel disapproval radiating from Farkas' still form.  In the uncomfortable silence that followed he listened to the muted clap of his horses' hooves, until his friend spoke up once more. 

"He wasn't always like that, you know?" 

Wulf looked up, but did not comment, curious as to where this was going.  It was obvious whom Farkas was talking about and he had to admit he was interested in hearing about Vilkas' past.  The warrior was close-mouthed about anything private, but in contrast the man riding next to Wulf was a willing source of information that Wulfryk could exploit.

Only to help him understand Vilkas better, although Wulf knew that it was merely an excuse for him to pry into things that were none of his business.  If Grumpy wanted to keep things to himself he had every right to do so.  Too bad the man wasn't here and that Wulf didn't give a damn about respecting other people's privacy. 

Farkas took his silence as an encouragement to carry on.  "When we were little, we used to get into all sorts of trouble," the warrior said with a smile and a faraway look.  "I was happy to watch the warriors train all day long.  I always imagined I would be one of them someday.  But Vilkas, he would get bored easily.  And when he did, he usually thought of a prank we could play on the Companions."  Farkas' grin was full of mischief and Wulf could easily see the young rascal in him, though he had some trouble imagining the man's solemn twin doing something against the rules. 

Both riders were silent for a short while as they turned their horses on the main road that would lead them to the Western Watchtower, past farms and fields, leaving behind in the distance the city of Whiterun. 

Happy to have found an avid listener to one of his favourite stories from their childhood, Farkas soon continued.  "He was always so serious; nobody ever suspected anything when he talked to somebody to distract them, while I tied their shoes together."  It had always been hilarious to watch the mighty warriors hop around, waving their arms frantically so they wouldn't lose balance.  "Once we broke into the pantry, stole some oil and greased up all the hilts of the practice swords in the courtyard."  Because even back then they had known that the real weapons of the warriors were strictly off-limits.  Besides, the adventure had been sneaking around in the dark and getting past a sleeping Tilma. 

"Another time we mixed up the herbs in the kitchen and ended up making all the Companions sick for two days.  Word got out and the city couriers began to cry that the warriors of Jorrvaskr carried the plague." 

Farkas laughed at the memory and Wulf joined in.  It almost sounded too funny to be true, but he didn't think the big warrior was making things up just for the sake of telling a story.  He wasn't Wulf, after all. 

What Farkas did not mention was how his brother had always stood up in his defence when they were caught.  No matter that he was the smaller and weaker one; no one ever got to touch Farkas.  Thinking back to their conversation of the evening before, the Companion realized that this was one thing that had never changed.  Vilkas was as protective of his ‘little’ brother, as ever.  The knowledge was a comfort, even now that he was a grown man and could look after himself. 

"Askar, he was the Harbinger before Kodlak," Farkas explained for his friend's sake, "He finally decided he'd had enough and that we should start studying to keep us out of trouble."  The big warrior made a face.  "Vilkas loved it, having found something he excelled at.  Things got interesting when one day we found a chest with scrolls in it in the Harbinger's room.  Vilkas wanted to practice his writing and, well, parchment was rare.  So we took a few of the scrolls, there were many more and we thought nobody would miss a few." 

"What happened?" Wulf prompted.

Farkas sighed heavily.  "As it turned out, the things were magical scrolls." 

"Ouch," Wulf threw in. 

"Yeah," the big warrior chuckled.  "One was enchanted with a spell of mayhem."  He heard his friend's sharp intake of breath.  They had been darn lucky that day and in retrospect this story was a funny one only because in the end nothing bad had happened.  "I've never seen a brawl bigger than the one that followed after one of the Companions found the scroll, read Vilkas' text and accidentally triggered the spell.  Thankfully, somebody else stumbled across another scroll a short time later and it put everyone to sleep before anybody was harmed seriously." 

Wulf laughed out loud, shaking his head in disbelief. 

But Farkas wasn't done with his recounting of times past.  "Things changed when we got older.  When we began to understand who the Companions really were and what they stood for.  Everybody always said I would make an excellent warrior, but nobody ever thought Vilkas would make it into the Companions.  He was very ill, you know?" Farkas asked.  "Before we were taken to Jorrvaskr, he'd almost died.  But my brother is a fighter," Farkas said with a great deal of pride in his voice.  "He pulled through but was left with a bad cough whenever he did anything strenuous."

It sounded so harmless now.  Wulf had no idea how awful it had been, watching his brother break down, wheezing for air.  Farkas had held his twin, utterly helpless save for praying for the spell to pass.  Most warriors of Jorrvaskr thought Vilkas would be better off as a scholar, especially since books had been his passion since he had begun to read.  Farkas knew better, though.  And if Vilkas didn't become a Companion, he wouldn't be allowed to stay at the mead hall.  Joining the order of warriors had been Farkas' greatest – and only – wish, but he would have given it up for his brother's sake.  Only, the twins hatched a better plan. 

"We began to train in secret – well, Jurgen helped and later Kodlak did as well.  At first Vilkas got worse- much worse and we thought we would have to stop forever.  But then he began to get better, a little at a time until by the time he was ten years old he was almost never out of breath, only when he was tired and upset." 

The beastblood had taken the rest of the illness, but that was a secret Farkas wasn't willing to share, not even with Wulf.  There was something else his friend needed to know, though.  "Vilkas worked ten times harder to become a Companion than anyone I know.  He firmly believes it is a privilege to be earned and not something to be granted to anybody, even if that person is a capable warrior." 

Wulf nodded his understanding.  It was a reasonable explanation for why the Nord had reacted the way he had done when they had first met.  Wulf had only knocked on the door and been let in, when Vilkas himself had worked for years to achieve the same goal.  It had to be terribly frustrating and Wulfryk had to agree with him in one point.  It was an honour to join the Companions, not a matter of course. 

Something else nagged on his mind, though.  Something Farkas had mentioned.  "Vilkas said you don't remember a time before the Companions." 

Farkas furrowed his brows, unsure what his brother had told his friend.  "That's not true," he began hesitatingly.  "Although Vilkas thinks I don't remember.  It makes him happy, so I let him believe it." 

"Why?"  Wulf didn't understand how that could help anyone. 

"When our parents died, we were both scared and sad; we were just pups after all.  I grieved them, but I did not carry their deaths with me the way Vilkas did.  After a while I just got tired of it all.  So I pretended to not remember.  I guess I never stopped."  In total, the twins had been fortunate, although fate dealt them another stroke not much later.  "Then Jurgen, who was like a father to us, left to fight in the Great War and never came back.  I don't think Vilkas ever forgave him for leaving."  Farkas sighed heavily.  "And now Kodlak is dying." 

Wulf looked sharply at the big Nord riding beside him, when he heard that particular news.  "I didn't know..."  He wasn't sure what else he could say. 

Farkas nodded his head sadly.  "It's true.  That's why he's been training Vilkas to become the new Harbinger." 

"That's a lot of responsibility," Wulf added softly.  Now he knew what Vilkas had meant when he had mentioned that he wouldn't be able to leave the Companions.  So many things were making sense all of a sudden. 

Farkas had to agree.  "My brother is under a lot of pressure.  He already manages most of the tasks himself though Skjor, bless his heart, helps wherever he can." 

Farkas and Aela did too, but more often than not their efforts created additional work.  They did any jobs assigned to them and otherwise they tried not to get in the way of the other members of the Circle. 

When Farkas was done talking, both men were left deep in thought.  They stayed silent for a while, until the Companion looked up and declared that he was hungry.  They decided to have a short break and dismounted, leaving their horses to graze next to the road while they sat side by side on a flat rock a few feet away.  Their simple meal consisted of bread, a few slices of smoked ham and an apple each as dessert.  Wulf gifted the core to his horse, which immediately began searching his pockets for the next treat. 

The main road was not the fastest way for them to get to the Western Watchtower that was today's destination.  It was more comfortable than riding across the country, however, and much safer, as in the flatlands the greatest danger to their horses were not predators, but rabbit holes. 

Some twenty minutes later they were ready to hit the road again.  The watchtower came into view just as the last rays of the setting sun were bathing the brownish grasses of the tundra in a pink light.  They reflected off the stone structure, blindingly bright against the dark blue horizon.  Much like on Wulf's travel with Vilkas the soldiers bid them welcome and stabled their horses while the Companions were invited to join the evening meal in the mess hall.  Farkas dug in like a starving man and Wulf enjoyed trading stories with the soldiers.  This time they were given a single room with two cots and a washbasin the two men made good use of.  Later Wulf bid his friend goodnight and enjoyed a night of uninterrupted, sweet sleep. 

He should have known something was about to go wrong.  Somehow, with Wulf in the vicinity, things always did. 

 

The dragon attacked them in the morning. 

 

Wulf awoke to the ringing of the bells and the heavy stomp of feet.  Muted through their door he heard orders being shouted. 

"What's going on?" Farkas croaked.  In the dark Wulf heard the Companion shift and the bed creak beneath his weight. 

"Dunno, I guess I better get a look," Wulf answered.  The soldiers were ringing the alarm, but why?  Were they under attack? 

As it turned out, yes, they were.  Before Wulf made it to the door, it opened and a man in full armour stormed in.  His posture was rigid and his voice wavered when he announced that "There is a dragon attacking the tower!" 

"Not _again_ ," Wulf groaned; a statement that made the soldier look at him surprise. 

"Can it get into the tower?" Farkas asked, already up and dressing hurriedly. 

"Not yet, though it may be just a matter of time if it decides to tear it down," the man answered and swallowed thickly.  "We're assembling in the main hall to discuss further action."

"Go," Wulf urged him on.  "We'll be there shortly."  He too was buckling on his armour.  Better not to face a dragon without it.  Better yet not to face it at all. 

The soldier gave a stiff nod and jogged away to find his comrades.  When only a few minutes later they arrived, they were greeted by the sight of a dozen soldiers preparing for battling something none of them had even faced in their darkest nightmares.  Four horses, including Wulf's and Farkas' own stood in the far corner of the room, shivering.  Apparently a quick-witted guard had saved the mounts from the stables that were now ablaze. 

The doors were locked and barred, but they did nothing to block out the sound; all could hear the thunderous roars now.  The commanding officer's plan was a simple one: attack the dragon with bows and bring it down.  Wulf cringed at the very thought.  It hadn't worked in Helgen and he saw no reason why it should work now. 

Apparently some soldiers saw it the same way.  "We need to get word to Whiterun.  Get some reinforcements," one man shouted. 

The officer agreed and pointed at a guard who was barely a man grown.  "Andel, you ride for the city.  The Jarl _must_ be warned." 

The boy nodded, wide eyed and moved to saddle one of the animals, but Wulf's hand on his shoulder stopped him.  "Take my horse.  He's faster."  Together they readied the black while Wulfryk gave the frightened boy some last-minute advice.  "Leave behind your armour; it will only weight you down.  Get out of here as fast as you can, then slow down.  It's almost thirty miles to Whiterun, if you trot him you'll make it in a bit over two hours.  Just don't blow him in a gallop too early, understood!?" 

"Yes, sir!" the soldier answered and swung himself into the saddle. 

When Wulf turned back to pay attention to the others, their discussion of the plan was already over.  Farkas came over to brief him on it in a silent, but urgent voice while everybody formed a circle around the officer, who stood in the middle. 

"Alright, men," the commander shouted, clapping his hands to get the attention of his soldiers again.  Wulf had to give the man credit: he was showing confidence and little fear.  "We need to distract the dragon, give Andel here a chance to leave unnoticed.  How about we turn that bloody lizard into a pincushion?"  There were a few half-hearted cheers that neither Wulf nor Farkas joined in.  "We will hold out and we will keep it occupied so it won't leave and attack Whiterun."  There was a brief pause in which the panting breaths of humans and horses both rang out loudly. 

At that very moment the earth quaked as something heavy landed close to the tower.  They heard the jolt, _felt_ it in their very bones.  The black horse pranced nervously and the humans shifted in discomfort.  All knew what lurked behind the doors of the tower.  The stonework did nothing to mute the roar that was followed by a loud thump. 

"It's taken off again!" a soldier who was gazing through an arrow slit shouted from above. 

This was it.  Two guards began to remove the bolts that closed the door to the tower while their commander's voice rang out once more, rising in volume and heartening his men. 

"Take courage!  Take courage in knowing that you are protecting your families and our beloved city!  That we have two Companions today to fight at our side!  Take courage, for any that die today will rise to glory and they shall feast in the halls of our ancestors!"  He took a deep breath "Victory or Sovngarde!!" 

Everybody joined in the old Nord battle cry and the sheer noise was overwhelming.  "VICTORY OR SOVNGARDE!!" 

They left the tower, running in single file and taking cover where they could.  The dragon didn't wait, it swept down and let loose its deadliest weapon: a fiery breath that missed its mark only because the two soldiers it targeted were quick enough to duck behind the corner.  The dragon roared once more and gained height, lazily circling the tower until it settled on top of it.  It would have been a good opportunity for all the archers to hit it, but they were all struck dumb when the huge beast chuckled and in a deep voice declared _"Brit grah.  I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide!"_

Wulf and Farkas were still in their tower, their task was to ensure Andel's safe escape.  The Companion looked up at the sky as the dragon pushed off and began to circle again. 

"Can I kill it now?" Farkas asked in the same voice children used when they wanted to know whether they could pet a puppy. 

Wulf laughed.  He thought he might have gone crazy.  Or he was already in the grips of the battle-madness, where fear did not paralyze, but lent speed to one's actions.  "You go ahead, Bright.  I'll be right behind you." 

Farkas didn't have to be told twice.  With a mighty war cry he charged out of the tower, providing a convenient distraction. 

Wulf knew there was nothing he could do or say to the frightened boy next to him, on whom their all survival hinged.  So he just slapped his horse's hind flank sharply, muttering "Off you go, lad." 

The horse and its rider stormed outside and Wulf followed, keeping an eye on the skies.  There was a loud shriek from the back of the tower and somebody shouted "Hroki, NO!!" 

 _"You are brave, Balaan hokoron,"_ the dragon spoke in an answer that was followed by more shouts and some fierce cursing. 

Wulf didn't see what was happening, but he guessed enough to know that one of their own was down, not a minute into the fight.  He flinched when he heard the beat of the huge wings, looking up all the time.  The dragon sailed to the middle of the courtyard where it landed gracefully, about three hundred feet from where Wulf had dropped to crouch on the ground.  It looked towards the road and snarled when it saw its prey was escaping.  Farkas took that very moment to round the corner, but the Companion skidded to a halt when he saw the dragon swerve its head to stare at him with one fiery eye. 

 _"Thurri du hin sille ko Sovngarde!"_ it hissed and made to take off again, to pursue the one who was fleeing.  After all, it wasn't like the others were going anywhere. 

When it spread its wings and reared up, Wulf noticed something odd about it.  The dragon was a grayish green in colour, but on one wing bore a strange discoloration.  As if it had been wounded and had healed recently, still bearing the scar tissue.  This couldn't be a coincidence.  Wulf knew that dragon.  He had encountered it once before, also on the plains around Whiterun. 

And much like before, he had to stop it.  Without any time for thought, Wulf shot an arrow at the giant lizard that hit it somewhere in the region of its belly and made it bellow in pain.  Wulfryk waved his arm and pointed it at the dragon.  "Hey!!" he hollered.  "Shut up or speak a decent language!"  Taunting it worked like a charm, as it had once already.  Maybe it recognised him as well. 

"Wulf!" he heard Farkas shout, but he didn't turn his head to look at his friend, sprinting for the safety of some cover...only there was none.  Behind him, Wulf heard the dragon swoop down, already imagined the searing pain from its hot breath upon his neck. 

There wasn't anywhere else he could go.  Dropping his bow, Wulf dove headfirst into the well.  He felt the wave of heat pass over him, though his relief was short-lived; he soon found himself fighting for his life, as not to drown.  His hands failed to find any purchase on the smooth, slimy walls and he tread the water furiously, the weight of his mail dragging him down.  Farkas and another soldier with an impressive moustache fished him out, shaking and waterlogged, once the dragon had veered off, to vent his frustrations on the other guards. 

There was no time for respite, however.  Retching up water, Wulf picked up his bow again and together they went after the dragon, to pelt it with showers of arrows, only to run for safety once the beast attacked back.  He did not know how long they played hide and seek with death.  The dragon came after them seemingly tirelessly; not losing interest in its little game with the mortals. 

They hadn't yet found a way to do it any serious harm, let alone to bring it down.  All they did was infuriate the beast further, because while the arrows didn't penetrate deeply enough to do any serious damage, the feeling must have been similar to being stabbed by countless needles. 

At some point Wulfryk found himself once more in the tower, barricaded in with Farkas and two remaining soldiers, Moustache and Shaking; both named for obvious reasons.  He still had his magic, feeble as it was, though he wasn't yet desperate enough to try using it.  Besides he doubted that the dragon would fall for the same trick twice. 

Andel was long gone and the greater part of the guard, including the commander, was dead.  Their greatest hope was to wait and to hope for reinforcements to come from Whiterun. 

 

xxxx

 

The dragon Mirmulnir had settled on top of the tower, basking in his victory over the mortals that cowered behind their walls and licking the small wounds he had received.  Through they stung, the mortals' teeth of iron were still such feeble things.  He would let them live for a while longer, because when he finally killed them, watching their hope die would be so much more satisfying than their frail bodies expiring. 

He knew they had called for aid.  Good.  He couldn't wait to have his fun with the newcomers. 

 

xxxx

 

It could have been minutes or hours later that the brazen ring of trumpets announced the arrival of the garrison of Whiterun.  The soldiers had come in eight wagons that were drawn by four horses each.  They were being led by none other than Jarl Balgruuf's own housecarl, a Dark Elf woman named Irileth. 

Moustache opened the door to greet and warn them.  "Careful!  It's still here, somewhere!"  Maybe it was the man's voice that drew the dragon's attention or maybe it had just been bidding its time.  "Kynareth save us," he muttered and tiredly added "Here it comes again!" 

 _"Krif krinn.  Pruzah!"_ The dragon's voice thundered across the plains. 

What followed was a slaughter.  It was Helgen all over again, the smell of burning flesh and the screams of the dying, all drowned out occasionally by the dragon's laughter. 

The battle turned quickly in the monster's favour and not even the Dark Elf's magic was enough to stop it.  Apparently it had learned from its encounter with Wulf and never paused, always in motion, always a threat. 

The few surviving soldiers soon were scattered and in hiding as the ones before them had been.  The entire fight left a sour taste in Farkas' mouth.  How were they supposed to fight, if they couldn't even reach their enemy?  He wasn't one to despair easily, but things looked pretty bleak.  He wouldn't go as far as saying it was hopeless, though that might be closer to the truth. 

Farkas had lost sight of Wulf some time ago, but he trusted his friend to stay alive.  When last they had spoken, Wulfryk had wanted to get the lay of the land; count the men still standing, organize them in some way.  He had been gone now for a long time. 

 

Wulf held his sides.  They hurt.  He couldn't stop the shaking, couldn't take off his mind from the cramping of his stomach or the way his breath wheezed out of his lungs with every spasm. 

He had climbed to the top of the tower.  His intention had been to cast a quick glimpse at the people below, to see how many soldiers were still standing.  It had been a good idea, up to the point when the trapdoor had snapped shut.  Now, he couldn't open it, which left him trapped at the top of the bloody tower with a damned dragon flying about. 

He would have cried, if he hadn't been laughing so hard. 

Predictably, the cheerful mortal drew the dragon's attention after a while. 

 

_Thump_

 

At first Wulf couldn't see anything. 

 

_Thump_

 

The top of a scaled head came into view between the merlons of the tower. 

 

_Thump_

 

The dragon folded its wings, landing lightly in front of the mortal.  It had seen many reactions to its presence in time.  But never, _never_ had anybody dared to make fun of it.  This one man did and he had also been the one to severely damage its wing, rendering the mighty dovah earthbound.  That alone meant this mortal fought more bravely than any of his pathetic friends.  The action at last merited acknowledging before the dovah would turn him into a smoking pile of ash. 

 _"You die by Mirmulnir,"_ the dragon spoke. _"Farewell, Mortal.  Your defeat brings me honour."_

"Go fuck your tail, lizard!" Wulf chortled in a last act of defiance, straightening himself.  This time there really was no place for him to go.  A jump off the tower would kill him for sure.  Or leave him crippled for live. 

He saw the dragon pull back its lips, either in a hideous smile or a grimace and open its jaws wide. 

 

"YOL TOOR SHUL!"

 

The heat was terrible, as was the high-pitched screech when flesh melted under the fiery onslaught, when eyes turned into a milky liquid, to drip down scaled cheeks. 

 

Wulf took a step closer to the thrashing reptile. 

 

"FUS RO DAH!"

 

The words came from deep within him.  He knew them, knew their meaning.  They had been used against him by his foes and now he would give them a taste of how it was, having their own powers turned back on them. 

The blast of force caught the dragon high in the chest and it toppled backwards, its claws raking against the stone of tower before it lost balance and went over the edge. 

Wulf could hear its enraged and downright bewildered scream, _"Dovahkiin?!"_ before its huge body smote against the ground at the foot of the watchtower, making the whole structure tremble. 

 

He didn't know when or how he found himself at ground level.  Wulf didn't notice the soldiers that gasped in astonishment as out of nowhere their sheer invincible foe was brought down. 

He did see the dragon bite a overhasty guard in half, saw it burn two more alive, as it slowly turned over, getting back on its feet.  Its wings had been crushed by the weight of its massive body falling on top of them and it was blinded, but all the more dangerous for finally being wounded. 

They approached it carefully, making a huge racket to confuse the dragon, so that it sent its fiery breath the other way.  But the beast still had claws and teeth and they were a weapon just as deadly. 

Wulf was saved from the huge jaws when Farkas stabbed his sword into the vulnerable spot where the dragon's belly joined its leg.  He saw the lizard's head whip around and miss him by inches, saw it swish its spiked tail, outright killing one man and sending several others flying. 

Another thing Wulf was conscious of was the sound Farkas' body made as it crashed into the tower, after sailing a couple of feet through the air. 

And the last thing he remembered was raising his sword and running at the dragon, screaming like possessed in a language none, save for the dragon understood, not even he himself. 

 

xxxx

 

"Let's make sure that overgrown lizard is really dead," Irileth suggested tiredly though none of the soldiers seemed particularly eager to approach the huge carcass. 

With a shrug of his shoulders that nobody saw Wulf stepped forward.  He was pressing a sleeve to his face in order to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.  The dragon looked pretty dead to him with his blade stuck right up to the hilt in its empty eye socket.  Wulf propped his left foot against the beast's head, grabbed his sword with both hands and began to pull. 

"What's happening?" one of the soldiers suddenly cried out with worry. 

The dragon's body had begun to glow faintly until with a low crackling sound the cadaver caught fire.  Wulf cursed when the flames licked up his boot, though he didn't feel any heat.  He put his entire weight into the next pull and with a wet sucking noise the sword finally pulled free, releasing a small torrent of liquids that dribbled out of the wound.  The blade itself was covered in ichor and grayish brain matter and other things Wulf didn't need to study any closer.  By now the entire dragon was wreathed in white flames that tore at its flesh, melting it off the bones before the eyes of the onlookers. 

"Everybody, get back!" the Dark Elf commander ordered. 

Everybody did.  Except for Wulf, who watched as his Skyforge Steel greatknife caught fire as well, evaporating the dragon's blood and leaving the blade almost stainless.  Weird, that there was no heat from this strange fire.  It was almost as if it called to him, beckoning him to come closer.  Wulf never felt it when the flames flashed over to him, but he was blinded by their bright light and he heard the other men's shouts of distress as he was buffeted by a gust of wind that had picked up from nowhere. 

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.  Without the light of the fire the world seemed to be a darker place.  In front of the small group of soldiers there lay the dragon's skeleton and a very much unharmed Wulf stood next to it.  Although with his head throbbing and the strange sense of giddiness that overcame him without a warning, he did feel like he had consumed too much of the Bannared Mare's ‘special brew’.  His nose was still bleeding, he could feel the blood running down his face, could taste it on his lips.  When Wulf's vision cleared at last, he noticed the soldiers looking at him like they've never seen another human being before. 

Moustache stepped forward half a step, as if he was magically drawn closer to Wulf.  "You...," the soldier stuttered, pointing a shaking finger at the Nord.  "You...you...you...are Dragonborn!" 

As if that was supposed to mean anything to Wulf.  He'd rather not be compared to one them sodding lizards, thank you very much.  When the soldier kept staring at him, Wulf felt his patience growing thin.  "Did you just insult my mother?" he barked at the man who stood as if petrified, blinking only at the harsh words. 

Wulf followed it up by "Just so you know, I'm sure she was a perfectly respectable lady, not a fire breathing lizard!"  Maybe.  Then again she had dallied with his father at some point. 

"In the very oldest tales," Shaking explained, "Back from when there still were dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay them and steal their power.  That's what you did, isn't it?  You took its power." 

"Ermm..."  _What?_

Moustache suddenly came back to live.  "There's only one way to find out.  Try to Shout," the soldier prompted.  "According to legends, only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, like the dragons do." 

Wulf had done his share of shouting; they all had.  His throat was sore from it, in fact.  Or maybe it was the burns from the jet of flame he had unleashed upon the dragon that he was feeling.  Perhaps the man was onto something with that ‘dragonborn’ nonsense, after all. 

When Wulfryk failed to react in the desired way, another guard joined the debate that had suddenly sprung up, but he was quickly silenced. 

"My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn; those born with the blood of dragons in 'em, like old Tiber Septim," Moustache said. 

Shaking frowned in answer.  "I've never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons."

"There weren't any dragons then, idiot!  They're just coming back now for the first time in...forever."  All men shared a look of discomfort.  They were the survivors.  If this was what they would have to face from now on, then may the gods have mercy on their souls. 

"But the old tales tell of the Dragonborn who could kill dragons and steal their power," somebody else threw in.  "You must be one!" 

Wulf didn't feel powerful.  He felt tired, sore, filthy and somewhat unsteady on his feet. 

"What do you say, Irileth?" another soldier addressed the housecarl.  "You are being awfully quiet." 

Wulf turned to look at the Dark Elf and though he covered his mouth by a hand be didn't bother to lower his voice when he said "I think your soldier's brains got melted." 

"Come on, Irileth, tell us, do you believe in this Dragonborn business?" 

The Dark Elf woman shook her head before replying.  "Some of you would be better off keeping quiet than flapping your gums on matters you don't know anything about."  She looked first at the remains of the dragon, then at Wulf and continued confidently "Here's a dead dragon and that's something I definitely understand.  Now we know that we can kill them."  Looking each of her men in the eye she finally stated "I don't need some mythical Dragonborn.  Someone who can put down a dragon is more than enough for me." 

There was a chorus of mutters and a few soldiers nodded their heads. 

"But you can't," a new voice spoke up all of a sudden.  "Only the Dragonborn can kill a dragon once and for all." 

Farkas limped into the circle of soldiers who had formed around Wulf.  He was using his greatsword as a crutch, although he seemed otherwise unharmed; his armour had taken the brunt of the impact. 

Still, Wulf moved to his side and he saw the big warrior cast him a grateful smile when he could throw an arm around his friend's shoulders for support. 

Moustache vigorously nodded his agreement, before turning to Irileth "You wouldn't understand, housecarl.  You ain't a Nord." 

Wulf was a Nord and he had to admit he didn't understand much of what had transpired, either. 

Irileth visibly bristled at the soldier's words.  "I've been all across Tamriel.  I've seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this," she countered coldly. 

Never, in all his travels across Tamriel had Wulf seen anything that bordered on this.  Maybe he should stay out of the depths of Morrowind, just for future reference. 

"I'd advise you all to trust in the strength of your sword arm over tales and legends."  With those final words the housecarl ended the argument.  She ordered the soldiers to tend to the wounded and the fallen and obediently they left, though many cast curious glimpses in Wulf's direction. 

Once they were out of earshot, Irileth approached the Nord who had saved the day.  He didn't look like a legendary hero.  He looked like a man dead on his feet and suffering from a bad case of nosebleed. 

"Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here," she addressed the Companions.  She couldn't order them to come to Whiterun, but she could ask. 

Irileth saw both of them shift nervously and exchange a meaningful look.  "I see I better give you some time to talk things through," she sighed.  "I'll take my leave now.  Come to me when you have reached a decision." 

 

They had survived.  Somehow, the fact only now began to register with Wulf.  All across the tower grounds guards were milling, shouting the names of their comrades, waiting for an answer.  Wulf turned his gaze away.  He had seen enough pointless death for one day.  "How are you?" he asked his friend in a gentle voice. 

"I'm fine," Farkas replied though he had to grit his teeth because of the pain.  "Are you hurt?" the warrior wanted to know of his shield-brother.  Wulf shook his head in negation. 

They sank down on a nearby boulder and Wulfryk began to undo the straps of Farkas' breastplate.  "Let's get you out of that armour and take a look." 

Thankfully, the Companion’s torso was only badly bruised with a cracked rib or two.  The real problem was his leg, where one of the spikes of the dragon's tail had ripped a deep gash into Farkas' thigh.  Wulf could see the ragged edges of torn muscle and the white of bone underneath.  With an injury like that his friend wouldn't be going anywhere and they both knew it. 

But..."I can heal it," Wulf suggested and just barely caught himself from poking the wound. 

"Really?"  Farkas stared at him wide-eyed.  "You can do magic?" 

"No, Bright," Wulf grinned "I'll kiss it and make it better." 

Farkas never had any magic done on him, mostly because Vilkas distrusted magic and disapproved of its use and the big warrior always followed his brother's lead.  Only, he couldn't let Wulf go on on his own, but he didn't like the idea of turning back either.  Oh well, he guessed there was a first time for everything. 

Wulf summed up their problem when his friend didn't answer straight away.  "The question is: do we want to go back and lose two days – at least - or do we continue?  In the four days it'll take us to reach the cairn I can heal your leg, but it'll knock me out for the duration of the journey." 

Farkas pondered his choices a moment longer and finally answered "We continue." 

"Alright."  Wulf rose and clapped Farkas on the shoulder.  "I'll go and tell Irileth." 

The housecarl wasn't happy with their decision, but she did nothing to stop them.  Irileth even gave them a cart and two horses for the journey and promised to take Farkas' mount back to Whiterun where Wulf's horse was stabled already.  She wouldn't need the cart, many of the soldiers who had arrived today wouldn't be returning. 

"Here, this is something I want to give you for your services," Irileth said and put a small vial of colourful glass in Wulf's hand, closing his fingers around it. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"A potion," the Dark Elf explained.  "My mission here was to gather intelligence, but I wouldn't watch my men die without taking action.  The Jarl will be displeased," she sighed and tapped the vial.  "This will render you invisible for a short while.  The potion is almost priceless, so use it wisely."  She cast him a small, tired smile "I imagine it might come in handy sometime." 

"Thank you," Wulf answered, surprised. 

"No.  It is I who must thank you.  Will you stay for the night?" the housecarl enquired. 

"Pardon me saying so, but I really want to get as far away from here as possible," Wulf replied. 

She nodded and they clasped hands in parting.  Within half an hour Wulf and Farkas were on the road again and though darkness had begun to fall, they would rather camp out on the plains than spend one more night in that accursed tower. 

 

Wulf had used his healing magic on Farkas once they were out of sight from the watchtower and the wound looked better already, but it wasn't gone.  As Wulf had said, it would take four days to restore the Companion to full health. 

To distract himself from the throbbing pain in his leg, Farkas talked.  "What do you think will Vilkas say when I tell him I almost killed a dragon?" the Companion mused. 

Wulf had a fairy good idea of what the man would do.  "I imagine he'll curse you for a fool and threaten to tie you up and never allow you to leave Jorrvaskr again." 

"You're probably right," Farkas grumbled. 

After the day’s events they were both too weary to travel on, but too worked up to go to sleep.  They had simply spread their bedrolls in the cart and were now lying down, gazing at the sky and listening to the sound of their horses grazing. 

After a while of silence Farkas spoke up again.  "I never thought that my friend would be the Dragonborn."  He turned his head and Wulf could see his pale eyes reflecting the starlight. 

"Do you know what that means?" Farkas whispered. 

"Erm...no?"  

"Huh," Farkas huffed, yawned widely and scratched his head.  "Neither do I.  You should ask Vilkas when we get back." 

Wulf chuckled, infected by Farkas' yawn he cracked one of his own.  He wasn't planning on telling anybody, although watching the other Companion's jaws drop might be worth it, he thought and closed his eyes. 

 

Several miles behind them, in the city of Whiterun, the call of the Greybeards went unheard by the very person it was supposed to reach.


	16. BTS

Farkas clucked his tongue at the team of two horses that were drawing their wagon and the animals picked up their pace eagerly, falling into a light trot.  For five days he had steered them northwest, in the direction of Dustman's Cairn.  Going like this was slower than on horseback, but he was glad they had decided against riding, even if he had to slow down often, forced to walk the horses to prevent the cart from clattering over uneven patches in the road and maybe even breaking an axle in the process. 

Besides, it was much easier with Wulf, who was lying in the back, fast asleep.  As promised, he had healed Farkas' leg and today, on what was the last day of their journey, it was almost as if the injury had never happened, save for a small scar.  The Companion still felt a slight tingling in it occasionally, especially when he moved to cower down, but compared to how badly he had been off a few days ago it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. 

In fact, Farkas was more worried about his friend than he was about himself.  Although Wulf had explained to him that the magic would wear him out and even though the other man claimed to be fine whenever he woke up, Farkas could see that he wasn't.  At least he ate anything the Companion handed him, if only to fall back into a deep slumber afterwards. 

It wasn't just that a grown man shouldn't need to rest for days on end.  Wulf had been also suffering from recurring nosebleeds, combined with spells of dizziness that made Farkas wonder if he had received a blow to the head. 

On one occasion his friend had managed to nearly scare the Companion out of his mind.  Farkas had turned around to check on his shield-brother and had been pleasantly surprised to see Wulf was awake, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.  The sun was behind his back and Farkas was blinded by it, but when Wulf removed his hand he thought he saw his clear blue eyes had turned into bottomless black pits.  It was enough to send his heart pounding, though he would have been willing to pass it off as his imagination, had his friend not begun to speak. 

_"Vust mu helt fah getiid? Zu'u dreh ni fraan rem pruzah, Zu'u los bahlokus ahrk Zu'u praag wah relieve dimaar."_

"Wulf?" Farkas asked with something akin to fear in his voice.  "I... I don't understand you." 

Enemies he could deal with, though this... he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do or say.  Was there a special procedure one followed when your friend acted like he was crazy?  Or, in Wulf's case, more crazy than usual? 

Wulfryk stared at him for a while longer, blinked and very slowly and clearly he said, "I was asking if we could stop for a while.  I don't feel too well, I'm hungry and I need to relieve myself." 

Farkas complied with his wish and thanked any Divines he could think of, because the words were in Nord and because – he had assured himself of it countless times since the incident – Wulf's eyes were back to their normal blue.  He watched as his friend listlessly nibbled on their supper and pondered how he would address the matter on his mind.  But Farkas' strength had never been words, and so he just burst out with the truth. "Before, you... you were speaking Dragon." 

That certainly got the other man's attention, although Wulf didn't appear to be as troubled by the news as Farkas was. 

"Farkas," he answered tiredly, and with a heavy sigh he explained, "I don't speak Dragon.  It was probably Ta'agra that you've heard, the Khajiit language." 

The words had sounded like those of the dragon, but if Wulf said it was Khajiit, then it probably was, Farkas thought and decided against pressing the matter.  After all, he wouldn't know the difference, not being familiar with either language.  Soon after they mounted the cart once more and Farkas took his position on the box while Wulf crawled back into his bedroll. 

Today, three days later, Farkas was glad that no further strange incidents had happened.  His friend was awakemst of the time now, feeling better, and no longer speaking in exotic tongues. 

The Companion watched the road, until they took a wide bend and a single barrow came into view, rising above the surrounding flatlands.  He whistled softly and the horses slowed down and their cart came to a rumbling stop. 

Farkas turned around and over his shoulder he said, "Look Wulf, we're here." 

There was a rustling of parchment and a moment later Wulfryk appeared next to him, studying the round shape of the cairn.  "Doesn't look very inviting, does it?" he asked the big warrior at his side.  "Let's find us a place to make camp, the last barrow I went into, it took me some time to get back out again." 

"The horses will need water," Farkas agreed and lightly slapped the reins over the animals' rumps, and the carriage lurched into motion again.  They drove through a small and ancient looking graveyard, where twines of nightshade had wrapped around the crumbling tombstones, as if to either hold them together or devour them.  It smelled of damp and rotting foliage and both men were glad to leave it behind, as the place gave them the chills. 

A suitable camp side with a small brook and some shrubbery as a protection against the elements came into view just a few minutes later.  Together, they unhitched their horses and Wulf tied them to the cart and rubbed them down while Farkas lit a fire and began to prepare their dinner.  The Companion had shot a young buck two days ago and they now had plenty of fresh meat, which meant they could leave the dry rations for their exploration into the tomb. 

After eating they packed for the morrow and turned in early, and for the first time since they had set out from the watchtower Wulf awoke feeling well rested, albeit still a bit groggy.  Farkas had a good laugh when his friend tried to put on his shoes the wrong way, and got himself pelted by the offending garments. 

Wulf knew from past experience that without having to perform any further healing the exhaustion would wear off soon.  A quick bath in the icy water of the stream helped to clear his head and when he finished dressing he felt almost like his old self again. 

He had little doubt they would encounter unpleasant things in the tomb and thus he put on his full gear, which consisted of a shirt, a woollen doublet as padding, a shirt of mail and a heavy leather jerkin on top, as well as leather trousers that provided more protection than ones made of cloth, greaves to shield his shins and knees, and gauntlets and vambraces for his forearms. 

Wulf never wore full gear unless he knew he was going into a fight and usually the leather armour was enough, but much like on the day of the dragon attack, today it couldn't hurt to be fully equipped.  Not if what they would encounter here was anything like it had been in Bleak Falls Barrow. 

Although all of his equipment was versatile, Wulf was especially proud of his shirt of mail, which was of a particularly clever design, one that he had copied from the warriors of Elsweyr.  The shirt was covered by elongated metal plates that overlapped; offering similar protection to scale armour but at the same time not impairing his movement.  However, each piece of plate had been carefully tied down in a way that allowed Wulf to move soundlessly, without any metallic clinking.  It had cost a fortune in both gold and the time it had taken to craft, but Wulf had never regretted making the investment. 

Farkas' armour was essentially the same that his brother wore, its main piece a breastplate with an elaborate wolf design, forged by none other than Eorlund himself. 

The two warriors finished donning their armour at about the same time, shared a look but no words, and then the only thing they had to do before setting out was to move the cart and horses to a new spot with fresh grass and to make sure that the animals were tied down properly, with a thin leather band between their halters and the rope.  Should any predators attack, it was better if they tore free than if they were eaten. 

The hike up the hill took no more than half of an hour.  Without a warning Wulf and Farkas found themselves standing before the entrance to the cairn, a circular cavity in the top of the hill, with stairs set in its outer perimeter that lead downwards in a circular fashion.  Water dripped off the stone and a thick growth of moss hung from the edges of the treacherously slick steps.  They carefully made their way downwards, their balance not the best due to the heavy packs they carried. 

At the end Wulf was happy to have firm ground under his feet without either of them having twisted an ankle during their descent.  Farkas was rubbing his thigh that had begun to throb somewhat from the strain. 

"Are you alright?" Wulf asked his friend with worry.  He hadn't healed Farkas today, because the use of magic would cost them one more day and besides, he had believed that the Companion's wound had healed almost entirely.  Apparently he had been wrong. 

"Yes," Farkas assured the Nord at his side and indeed there was no strain in his voice.  He scratched his leg, rubbing the scar tissue forcefully.  "Don't worry, it doesn't hurt.  It just itches." 

"Leave it!" Wulf reprimanded him, not for the first time. 

He put down his pack and retrieved from it the poles and oiled rags they would need inside the barrow.  Something else rolled out of one of the bags.  A small vial, the one Irileth had given him almost a week ago.  Absent-mindedly Wulf pocketed it, putting it into a small pouch that was tied to his belt.  Better not to lose such a valuable gift.

He proceeded to make the torches and handed the Companion next to him one as well. 

Farkas took the offered extra torch and the pieces of cloth and fastened them within easy reach, watching as his friend retied and shouldered his pack.  "You know, I've never had any magic done on me," he confessed. 

Wulf looked at him with evident disbelief.  "Never?" he asked. 

Farkas shook his head.  "No.  Vilkas doesn't like magic much," he explained.  "He doesn't trust it.  Potions are fine though."  And as it had always been, Farkas had followed his twin's lead, not ever questioning his decisions. 

"I noticed," Wulf snorted, recalling Vilkas' reaction when during the dragon attack he had revealed that he knew some magic.  Though Farkas had helped him understand his brother a great deal, that part was still a mystery.  Furrowing his brows, Wulf enquired "Why, if I may ask?" 

"Our parents were killed by magic," Farkas said simply. 

For once, Wulf found himself at a lack of words.  What could one day in the face of such honesty?  He doubted it was a topic either of them wanted to discuss, so he steered their conversation in another direction "But you don't hate it?" 

The Companion only shrugged his shoulders and responded "Why should I?  Magic is a weapon.  As is a sword.  Had they died by it, I wouldn't be blaming the blade."  After a moment of consideration he resumed "I'd blame the person wielding it." 

For one more moment they remained silent.  Farkas hadn't been intending for their talk to drift in this direction.  He now felt somewhat guilty for burdening his friend with events long past.  Trying to make it up to the other man, he cautiously offered "But your magic... it's not bad.  It kind of tickles." 

The tension eased when Wulf laughed out softly.  "Thank you, Bright."  After another few seconds of silence he sighed heavily, pointing in front of him, at what both men had ignored up to this point.  "Well, here's the door," Wulf remarked dryly.  "Do we want to?" 

Farkas' answer was as direct as ever, with the big warrior having missed the sarcasm in his friends' voice.  "No.  But we have to.  Might as well get it over with."  That much at least was true. 

The door to the cairn was a very old, rusty thing that stood slightly open.  Behind it, the darkness of the barrow seemed impenetrable and for the briefest moment Wulf considered turning back.  He had done his share of crawling around in ancient ruins.  But if this was the only way for him to become a Companion, then so be it. 

With a deep breath he entered the underground structure, the cool, damp air like a blow to the face.  Behind him, Farkas followed, his tread heavy and slow. 

They stood still for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the darkness after the bright light of the day.  Soon, Wulf could discern shapes in the gloom.  Tall pillars and statues whose faces had been worn smooth centuries ago lined the walls, with parts of the decorations crumbled away.  The first lengthy hall led them to a large chamber with a stone table in the middle. 

Farkas stopped suddenly and sniffed the air.  At least that's what it looked like, though Wulf strongly suspected the Companion was trying real hard to suppress a sneeze.  His own nose tickled from the dust their feet had raised just by walking through the debris.  Looking around, Wulf noticed all kinds of objects strewn across the floor.  Amongst heaps of empty bottles there were broken shovels and pickaxes and other tools used for mining.  An open coffin leaned against the wall, with a bandaged body spilling out of it and across the tiles.  This didn't bode well at all. 

Farkas nudged half of a rusty spade with his boot.  "Looks like somebody's been digging here, and recently."  He wasn't any happier about it than Wulf was.  Hopefully, whoever had invaded the barrow was long gone by now – and without the piece of Wuuthrad. 

"We should tread lightly." 

The Companion didn't know what was so very funny when Wulf began to chuckle. 

They ventured deeper into the bowels of the earth, Wulf in the lead and Farkas behind.  At first they didn't encounter anything, alive or dead, but instead of feeling relief, their unease only grew.  Whoever had dug around had been very careful and without a shred of respect for the dead.  Graves had been broken open with their contents lying around and the mummies carelessly tossed in a corner, heaped, one upon the other.  The sheer ruthlessness of the grave robbers was alarming. 

The corridors continued straight ahead for a while. How long, neither Farkas nor Wulf could tell.  Down here, in the dark, there was no way to measure the passing of time, except by how long it took for their torches to burn out.  Somewhen around the second rag they left the passageway and found themselves in what must have been the central hall of the dead.  It looked similar to the one in Bleak Falls Barrow, with its stone biers that were arranged to form a small labyrinth.  Thankfully, by how quickly they had arrived at this point, Wulf deduced that it wouldn't be nearly as big as the other one had been. 

On the other hand, for some reason, this part of the tomb looked to be intact.  The coffins were untouched and their contents undisturbed. 

Which also meant that their residents probably weren't dead.  Well, they were a bit, just not dead enough. 

Farkas apparently had been thinking the very same thing when he spoke his warning. "Be careful around the burial stones."  He cast Wulf a sharp look, one that said he was being serious and finished, "I don't want to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back." 

Wulf nodded his head in understanding.  "I already met the charming inhabitants of Skyrim's barrows," he informed Farkas and sent a prayer to any divines willing to listen for them not to encounter any draugr. 

With his shield strapped to his arm he could still carry a torch, whilst in his right hand he held his sword.  Wulf's bow was unstrung and stowed away, as past experience had taught him that it wouldn't be of much use against the unliving.  Without making a sound he lead the way, his companion guarding his back, greatsword slung across a shoulder. 

"Webs," Farkas suddenly hissed, a few minutes into their exploration. 

"Yeah," Wulf acknowledged the fact with some humour.  The white nettings were spanned across the roof and between the coffins, glistening wetly.  "The place is probably crawling with Frostbites," he joked. 

But Farkas didn't laugh.  When he looked back, Wulf saw that the Companion had stopped in his tracks.  The whites of his eyes shone brightly in the flickering light of the fire, his eyes roving frantically across the walls and roof.  If Wulf didn't know any better, he'd say his friend was scared out of his mind.  Which was absolutely impossible. 

Only, the man who had charged into battle against a dragon without hesitation now looked like his feet wouldn't carry him another step. 

"What's wrong?" Wulf asked.  "You don't like spiders?" he taunted and saw Farkas give a full-bodied shudder, like a dog shaking water.  It – it couldn't be. 

"Wait."  Wulf couldn't believe what he was seeing.  "You're really afraid of _spiders_?" he asked in utter disbelief. 

"I'm not afraid of spiders!" Farkas replied in a sullen voice. 

"Yes, you are!" Wulfryk cried. 

"Fine!" Farkas snapped.  "They scare me!  Are you happy now?" 

"No!"  Wulf remembered not to shout.  Just.  He was still agitated when, gesticulating wildly, he argued, "If you knew we were going to delve into some ancient ruins that are frequently occupied by spiders, I might add; didn't you think that might be something I should know about!?" 

"What for?" Farkas threw back.  "I'll still fight them," he countered.  "It's just... they're revolting.  It's the eyes.  And the legs.  And the way they skitter across the floor," he counted out and was seized by another violent shudder. 

Ralof had said something similar, Wulf remembered.  He was more fascinated now than angry.  "What about draugr?" he enquired of his friend with a great measure of curiosity. 

Farkas blinked in confusion.  "What about them?" he asked. 

"Do they scare you?" Wulf wanted to know. 

"No."  The answer was quick and straightforward. 

"Oh, good."  Maybe Wulf could make Farkas feel a bit better about his fear.  "How about I deal with the spiders and you deal with the undead abominations that frankly scare the shit out of me?" he proposed. 

It took Farkas some time to understand and when he did it was his turn to stare incredulously at Wulf.  "What's scary about draugr?" 

"Farkas," Wulfryk began in a patient tone, making his point unmistakably clear, even for the Companion. "If you make fun of me, I swear I'll find a baby frostbite and put it in your shirt when you're sleeping." 

"You wouldn't!" the Companion gasped. 

"Try me," Wulf threatened, dead serious.  Lifting his hand he at last offered, "Deal?" 

Farkas grasped his hand and they shook on it.  "Deal!" 

"Just...," both men began at the same time. 

"Don't tell anybody," they finished in unison.  For one moment they managed to keep upright the serious facade before it crumbled and both broke out in peals of laughter.  All of a sudden, Dustman's Cairn didn't seem as daunting anymore. 

Things became serious a while later when they had a run-in with their opponents, both of the two and the eight legged kind.  The fights were short but intense, and they stuck to their bargain.  To give Farkas credit, he helped out once, squishing a spider the size of a lapdog beneath his heel, upon which he continued to cuss and wipe the sole of his boot for the next couple of minutes.  Wulf set two draugr on fire when things got hairy and complimented himself inwardly for not shrieking like a girl when a third one grabbed him from behind.  His bellow had been very manly, as Farkas attested to, sniggering, and loud enough to – literally – wake the dead. 

Ultimately, nothing stood between them and their goal anymore, save for a big double door. 

"Can you open it?" 

"Probably."  Wulf yawned widely.  "But I don't think I can go much further right now."  Frankly, he couldn't see straight anymore, which would make any attempts at picking the lock very interesting indeed. 

His tiredness wasn't natural, he knew, but a lingering effect of the healing magic he had performed on Farkas.  Maybe that was the reason as to why the big warrior didn't argue when Wulf confessed to needing some rest.  The Companion didn't look to be exhausted at all, but a break wouldn't hurt him either. 

"You want to rest here?" Farkas half-asked and half-suggested. 

"We could lie down in the corridor, but," some things went without saying. "I don't fancy waking up to some draugr stumbling over me."  He'd do more than scream, should that occur. 

Wulf looked around for a moment, before pointing at the ceiling and saying "Up, in the rafters." 

Farkas threw him a dirty look, as if asking whether he had lost his mind. 

"What, you have a fear of heights, too?" Wulfryk teased. 

"No."  Though Farkas did have a healthy respect for them.  "I once climbed Jorrvaskr," the Companion recounted.  "Aela said I couldn't because its roof is round, but I did."  Farkas' frown was lost in the darkness, but his silent mutter carried enough for Wulf to hear.  "The hard part was getting down."  It had taken Vilkas three hours to talk him into trying.  He wasn't afraid to climb, he only preferred not to. 

In the end, Wulf's determination prevailed over Farkas' aversion to climbing.  He unburdened himself from his gear, fished out some rope and slung it diagonally across one shoulder.  After assuring himself that the wood was in good condition, he scaled a support beam, nimble as a cat.  Wulf tossed his friend one end of the rope and pulled first his, then Farkas' pack and weapons up. 

The Companion followed, not nearly as graceful as Wulf, though his movements were still sure.  There was a stone ledge next to the wall, broad enough that they wouldn't have to worry about rolling off.  Once they had made themselves comfortable, Farkas even admitted that it was a good spot. 

Wulf could only agree.  "They never look up," he commented ominously. 

Farkas thought it might be better not to ask too closely where he had gotten that piece of wisdom from.  But he couldn't ignore the next thing the other man said. 

"You do know that sooner or later we're bound to walk into whoever is digging around here and desecrating graves?" 

"I know," Farkas said.  "But we're prepared and they are not."  He stretched out on his back and confidently stated, "Besides, we're Companions.  We can take on a bunch of filthy grave-robbers." 

"You're right," Wulf agreed.  After all, nobody except for the Circle knew that they were here.  Something else was on his mind, though.  "That scholar – think he could have told somebody else about Wuuthrad?"

"Maybe."  Wulf felt rather than saw Farkas' shrug.  "If he did, then there are several fractions that would benefit from the information.  The Companions are held in high esteem throughout Skyrim, but we have enemies also." 

"What enemies?" Wulf enquired with no small amount of interest.  So far he'd yet to hear a bad word about the warriors of Jorrvaskr. 

Farkas took his time to ponder the question before he answered slowly, "Minor warrior guilds.  Seeing the glory of the Companions diminish might raise their own.  Bandits.  The Silver Hand." 

"Who's the Silver Hand?" Wulf threw in, wondering why it sounded familiar. 

Farkas paused for a split second, let out a pent-up breath and continued, "Bad people who hate all kinds of things.  Werewolves, especially." 

"You know, Bright, that would make them good people to most," Wulf chuckled.  By now he had gotten used to his friend saying the strangest of things at times.  He rolled over and extinguished their torch.  Light giving away their position went against the very idea of having a hiding spot.  The darkness that closed in around them was absolute. 

Rather than to listen to the sounds that were all around them and suddenly seemed magnified tenfold, Farkas kept up their conversation.  His question was rather unexpected, though.  "Do you miss your home?" 

"Skyrim's my home, now," Wulf replied with a sigh.  It was true. 

"You know what I mean," Farkas pressed on. 

"Yes," Wulfryk whispered.  "I do miss Elsweyr.  The weather is almost always beautiful there.  It's full of deserts and rocky canyons and mile-long beaches of fine white sand that gently slope towards an azure sea," he told, almost dreamily.  With his eyes closed he could see it in front of him, could imagine that the scatter of feet below them was the gentle rustling of palm leaves. 

"You should go there one day," Wulf encouraged Farkas.  "There are no giant spiders," he said with a smile.  "Only scorpions," he added slowly in afterthought.  In the dark Farkas missed the evil twinkle in his friend's eyes when Wulf opened them for one moment. 

"What's a scorpion?" 

"It's like a cross between a mudcrab, a spider and a wasp," Wulf answered in an innocent voice. 

"Are you fucking joking?" 

"No."  It was a good thing Farkas couldn't see his grin.  "Sweet dreams, Bright." 

 

After a few hours of sleep and a hasty meal, Farkas and Wulfryk let down their packs using their rope, and slid down a smooth pillar that held up some of the support beams.  They couldn't have been inside the barrow for longer than a day and a night, but the rest had done Wulf a world of good already. 

The lock on the closed door wasn't worthy of being called a challenge; a huge old mechanism, it didn't last a minute against his lock-picking skills.  Wulf grimaced in anticipation of a rusty squeak, but the double doors swung open soundlessly. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, an alarm bell began to ring. 

He stood motionlessly, but Farkas stepped forward boldly and crossed the threshold, and when nothing happened, Wulf followed hesitatingly.  They had come this far, turning back was out of the question now.  Why Wulf suddenly felt the almost overwhelming urge to run, he did not know.  After all, the worst seemed to be behind them. 

The two warriors found themselves in a big, circular chamber that was mostly empty. 

It was also a dead end. 

The only further way was blocked by a sturdy gate of bars that didn't look like it would bulge under the exercise of any form of physical force.  Neither did it have a lock. 

"Well, that's - not good," Wulf sighed. 

Farkas walked up to where the other Nord was mustering the gate, his heavy tread echoing loudly in the spacious cavity.  "There must be a switch here, somewhere," the Companion thought out loud. 

"I didn't see one," Wulf responded "But maybe we missed something.  Let's look around." 

He put down his pack, there was no use lugging it around with him if they weren't going anywhere.  The search took a long time, both men getting frustrated after a while when it seemed futile.  Until Wulf stumbled over what had been right in front of them, hidden in the deep shadows.  There was a niche with a lever that he only spotted because the metal reflected the light.  

"Found it," Wulf called ou, relief coursing through him. 

There was only one evident way for them to continue their mission.  Wulfryk searched the parameter of the alcove, but he found nothing that might indicate a trap.  He still stood to the side and cowered down when he activated the lever, just in case. 

What he hadn't anticipated, was to be locked in himself.  The bars descended out of the ceiling, effectively trapping him inside. Good thing that he wasn't on his own, or there would be no way for him to escape his prison. 

Farkas walked up with a heavy sigh.  "Now look what you've gotten yourself into," the Companion chided his friend.  "No worries, just sit tight.  I'll find the release." 

"I'll never hear the end of it," Wulf muttered. 

"What was that?" Farkas suddenly spoke up from the other side of the room. 

"Nothing," Wulf grunted. 

"Not you- ," Farkas looked around wildly.  "The- ," but he never finished his sentence, because at that very moment the gates that had blocked their further way began to rise. 

It was at that moment that Wulf knew his suspicions had just been confirmed.  Damn it, but he should have trusted his gut!  Only the wish to become a Companion had kept him going. Without Farkas at his side he would probably have turned back straight after opening the doors.  Now he stood, gripping the iron bars of his prison with all his strength and unale to help as four people sauntered into the chamber.  Three men and a woman, they were armed right to the teeth.  And Wulf's bow was still strapped to his pack, which lay in the corner.  Gods above, but they were screwed. 

Apparently one of the men shared his unvoiced sentiment.  "It's time to die, dog," he said. 

We knew you'd be coming here," another man gloated, giving his sword a few swings. 

"Your mistake, _Companion_ ," the woman spat. 

They had begun to fan out, trying to encircle Farkas, who had slowly begun to back away.  The big warrior was good, Wulf knew, but he wasn't good enough to take on four enemies at the same time.  He wasn't alone, though.  Wulfryk's sword might not be of much use right now, but his magic might be.  He only needed one clear shot that would give his friend all the advantage he needed. 

Their assailants appeared unconcerned so far.  Seemingly without a care in the world they continued their conversation. 

"Which one is that?" 

"It doesn't matter.  He wears that armour, he dies." 

The woman laughed in delight.  "Killing you will make for an excellent story," she addressed Farkas, whose back hit Wulf's prison with a clatter. 

"Distract them," Wulf hissed urgently. 

Farkas straightened.  "None of you will be alive to tell it," he ground out and Wulf felt a grin spread across his face.  Those cocky bastards were in for a nasty surprise. 

Wulfryk drew up on his magic. 

His concentration was interrupted though when Farkas did the absolutely last thing a warrior in his position should do: the Companion slowly lowered the point of his sword and then the mighty weapon dropped from his grip and hit the stone floor. 

"What the hell are you doing, pick up that sodding sword!" Wulf shouted at his friend, not caring that he had just given away his position. 

But Farkas didn't listen.  The presence of another person in the room distracted his attackers for long enough. 

 

Wulf would never forget what he saw next: when Farkas fell on his knees in what looked to be either defeat or agony, or maybe both.  When his arms began to elongate and thick hair sprouted on them, his shoulders broadened and his hands turned into claws.  When his armour fell off and the pleasant features of his face began to twist into a snout. 

When the thing that now stood before him no longer was a man. 

Suddenly, Wulf was really glad there were solid iron bars between him and the monsters out there.  Which one he needed protection from, he wasn't entirely sure.  Probably the one that had been Farkas.  Nothing should have this kind of savage strength like the werewolf did, as it tore into its surprised adversaries.  The overzealous woman died with her throat ripped out before she could even lift her sword, and none of her buddies fared any better. 

It was over within the blink of an eye. 

The werewolf – Wulf couldn't bring himself to call it Farkas – cast him a quick look, probably already gauging its next meal, and loped off in the direction of the now open gate, but stopped when it found its way blocked by six more warriors.  Well equipped and better trained than the first four, none of them went down when the werewolf charged.  Instead they evaded the attack and regrouped quickly, their various weapons trailed on their foe.  They had bows that were of no use in close combat and swords and axes, and one had a spear. 

A savage battle followed, the snarls of the beast echoing loudly in the empty space, only occasionally drowned out by the shouting of the warriors still standing, and the cries of the dying. 

At the end of it all, Wulf didn't know whether to feel relief or dread when one big guy slammed the butt of his mace against the werewolf's head, knocking it unconscious and successfully ending Farkas' transformation. 

Maybe it was a good thing Wulf didn't have his bow.  At the very moment couldn't tell whom he would have trailed it on. 

"Can't trust Newbloods to do the job right," a deep voice chuckled in dark amusement when the man saw that all four of their own were dead. 

Somebody else raised a sword over Farkas' unconscious form. 

"Wait!" a big man with dark skin bellowed.  "Remember our orders!  She wants them alive." 

"What for?" the woman with the spear complained.  "Only a dead dog doesn't bite." 

"You want to explain yourself to _her_?" her friend reminded her. 

"Nah.  Best get him into some chains, and quick!" 

They proceeded to tie Farkas up, but one man detached himself from the group and took a few steps in Wulf's direction. 

"Hey, Evett, get your lazy arse over here!" the woman shouted at him. 

"What about that one?" the man named Evett asked. 

"He ain't goin' nowhere," the deep voice answered him.  "Now, take the legs and heave, damn you!" 

If they had known Wulf could do magic, they probably would have shot him on the spot.  Now, they left him behind, watching helplessly as they dragged off the unconscious form of the man he had believed to be his friend; the tread of their feet and the light of their torches dwindling, until Wulf was left behind, alone in the dark.


	17. BTS

They had taken the torches with them.  In the pitch-black darkness Wulf couldn't even see his hand in front of his face.  His sense of hearing was keener now that he was robbed of sight, however.  Standing still he listened to the dwindling footsteps and counted out the seconds in his head.  When nothing happened for a while he shakily let out the breath he had been holding.  His heart was beating so rapidly in his chest, he felt the pulse in his neck and temples and his thoughts were in a jumble that sent his mind reeling.  He couldn't accept what had happened as true. 

That Farkas was – no, he couldn't think about that now.  He had his own situation to consider.  The gods only knew what those thugs had planned for him.  How long would it take them to secure Farkas?  He might not have much time left before they returned.  He had to get out!  

'Get a grip, Wulfryk,' he muttered and tried to ignore the way his voice wavered. 

Wulf took a deep breath, telling himself to concentrate.  He clasped his hands before him to stop them from shaking.  'Focus comes with calm', he had been told dozens of times by his former Altmer employer.  Too bad the old Mer wasn't here now.   Together, they had gotten alive out of countless scrapes, but today Wulf was on his own. 

After a few seconds in which nothing happened, a pale, but steadily glowing orb of light appeared in the palm of Wulf's hand, growing in intensity and size until it was bright enough to light the alcove he was trapped in.  The magical light was one of the easiest spells, requiring but a fraction of energy of the simplest healing spell.  Now that he had managed to summon it, Wulf would be able to keep it up for as long as he needed the light. 

The very first thing he tried was to pull the lever, but it was stuck fast.  Wulf's hope had been faint, he hadn't expected to get away so easily.  He walked up to the bars and began to study them.  They were sturdy and looked to be in a good condition and Wulf cursed as he ran his hands up and down the cold iron.  He tried to lift the gate, but it wouldn't bulge as much as an inch.  Too heavy to lift, the bars were also too thick for him to bend.  He doubted he could blast them apart, either. 

Maybe if he would have frozen them first, but unfortunately Wulf's mastery of cold destruction magic was limited to freezing liquids into small ice cubes.  It was a great trick at parties, but of little practical value.  Besides, the fireballs would make a hell of a racket that would undoubtedly draw his enemies, and to draw on so much magic would wear him out.  And any kind of lightning spell wouldn't be of any use against metal, either. 

With every second that Wulf searched for a way out, he realized more and more that his situation was desperate indeed.  He began to pace up and down in the confined space of the alcove, as if to escape the onslaught of panic that he could not allow himself to succumb to. 

Something told him his captors wouldn't be interested in parley.  Perhaps he could trick them, but it was a risk he'd rather not take, as the chances were high they would outright kill him without listening to anything he had to say.  He was also beginning to wonder who 'they' were.  One of the other warrior guilds Farkas had mentioned?  Or the very Silver Hand that Wulf had asked about several hours ago?  Divines, but this had turned from a regular mission to a catastrophe within minutes. 

Swallowing hard, Wulf resigned himself to the fact that there was no escape.  Not this time.  He would have to wait for his captors to come and get him.  Although he doubted they would believe him if he told them that he hadn't known about the whole werewolf-thing, it was worth giving it a try.  Trade a few secrets of the Companions against his freedom.  It might work, if he played it right.  Or he'd end up just as dead as the six corpses on the floor that had been left where they had fallen.  The presence of them fellows did nothing to cheer Wulf up, who suddenly noticed how very thirsty he was.  To add to his bad luck, his water canteen was in his backpack, which was on the other side of the bars.  It might as well have been back in Jorrvaskr. 

Wulf hunkered down and began to search the small pouches that were attached to his belt for something to chew on.  Swallowing spittle wouldn't quench his thirst, but it was better than nothing.  He had some dry rations and a small healing potion on him and...

" _Shit_!" Wulf cursed avidly as something small fell out of his pouch and began to roll across the floor.  He dropped the piece of dried meat he was holding and dove after the other object, falling flat on his stomach and reaching past the iron bars to catch it – just – on the very tip of one finger.  For one moment Wulf didn't dare to move, afraid he might knock the small vial away, but he wasn't getting any closer to it by lying here.  Slowly and with great care he rolled it towards himself, until he could grasp it safely. 

He had recognized the vial the Dunmer housecarl, Irileth, had given him.  What had she said?  It made one invisible for a brief period of time.  Wulf turned away to study the alcove he was trapped in once more.  It wasn't entirely empty, there was a small stone table inside and some rotting furniture that he hadn't paid any mind before, believing them to be utterly useless.  Now though... they might serve a purpose.  Hope flared up in his chest once more and he allowed himself a small, tight grin. 

A plan began to form in his mind. 

 

xxxx

 

"Now, don't make this any harder than it needs to be.  Come out, and I promise we won't hurt you," a deep voice coaxed. 

"Much," one of his friends added, setting off a series of muttered curses and 'shut up's.   

"Come out, now," the first speaker commanded.  Wulf could hear that he was slowly losing his patience.  Not that there had been much of it to begin with. 

"No," he shouted over his shoulder, stubborn as ever.  "There's werewolves out there and draugr and spiders, not to mention your own outstanding selves.  I didn't sign up for this shit!  You want to talk, you come to me!" he insisted. 

"We tried being nice, but you're not making it easy for us," another man said.  "You leave us no other choice but to drag you out, whether you want to or not." 

"Or you could let me go," Wulf called back. 

"Not sure I can do that," the deep voice answered him in a conversational tone "After all, you brought us the dog." 

"Yeah?  You can keep him," Wulf shot back.  "Just let me go, I won't make any trouble," he prompted, knowing full well that he wasn't making his situation any better.  What he really thought was 'open that danmed gate!' 

And finally, after so much arguing, they did, the deep voice telling one Roslyn to 'escort their guest out'.  More like, to stab him and be done with it.  When the bars began to lift with a metallic clatter, Wulf took a deep breath.  This was the crucial moment he had been waiting for.  He had managed to roll over the stone table and to pile the other debris around it, thus he was safe from arrows and hidden from the view of his captors.  He knew they couldn't catch sight of him in the dark, but if they saw him just vanishing, they would simply let the bars drop and there was nothing he could do to prevent them from leaving him here to rot for all eternity.  The very thought made his stomach turn. 

The vial was small and there wasn't much liquid in it and Wulf swallowed half of it with a single sip.  It wasn't a pleasant sensation.  He shuddered at what felt like being drenched in icy cold water, only from the inside.  That meant the potion was working, right?  He sure as hell hoped so. 

Wulf got up from his position on the floor behind the pile of debris and silently crossed to the other side of the alcove.  He had hidden his sword and shield as well as he could, but if anybody had a closer look, they would find it.  It physically pained him to leave it behind, but he had no idea how that invisibility spell worked.  If it didn't include his sword and shield, then he would be finished. He doubted the thugs would overlook a blade hovering in the air.  Thus he let it go, taking with him only what was already strapped to his body. 

Wulf swore his heart stopped beating when the woman looked straight at him, but her gaze didn't linger, sweeping past him, unseeing.  She was cautious, expecting an attack which also meant her going was slow.  It might just give him a few extra seconds.  He ducked underneath her spear and began to tiptoe through the chamber, his heart beating in his chest so loudly, it was a wonder the others didn't hear it.  How long before the potion's effects wore off?  Damn, but he should have drunk the entire contents of the vial! 

Wulf was halfway through the room when the uproar started. 

It began with the woman shouting, "He's not here!" 

Of course her friends didn't believe her and a heated, frantic argument ensued. 

They were making enough noise to cover Wulf's escape.  He began to run, the sound of his footsteps drowned out by the shouting of the warriors behind him.  He burst through the doors that no more than an hour ago he had picked and continued onwards.  His headless flight ended after a few hundred feet when the last rays of light from the chamber were lost in darkness.  Wulf paused, breathing hard.  Now that he was free, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.  Fright told him to run, to not look back and keep going, but his mind thankfully intervened. 

Or maybe it was just that his fear of the draugr was greater than that of the brutes behind him.  With his luck, if he tried to exit the barrow, he would blindly run right into the undead.  He couldn't see without light and light would give away his position. 

He had had a similar thought, right before going to sleep. 

Back in the chamber, he could hear the warriors' argument come to an end and the tread of running feet echo loudly through the corridor. 

Was Wulf still invisible?  He couldn't tell.  There weren't many ways he could go; back was out of the question, as was onwards.  That left... up. 

Wulfryk jumped and grabbed the rough wood of a beam, pulling himself up with his arms and gripping the post with his legs, so he wouldn't skid right back down.  He made it up just as the passage beneath him was lit by half a dozen torches, as the others correctly assumed that he couldn't have gone on, because that was the way from which the warriors themselves had come. 

Throwing himself down on the very ledge he might have slept on, Wulf buried his face in his arm, trying to stifle the harsh panting breaths that were torn from him due to his physical exercise and the alarming situation he found himself in. 

"He was there, we all heard him talk!" the woman shouted.  They were patrolling the corridor three warriors abreast with weapons drawn. 

"He must be here, somewhere," a man answered. 

"You'll find him," the deep voice from before replied.  "If that's the last thing you'll do.  I shall see to it personally."  He came to a stop directly beneath Wulf's hiding place.  "Lock down the barrow," the leader ordered, "Post guards at every entrance and break open every damned coffin if you have to.  Dog or no, we'll teach that little shit to fear the Silver Hand." 

His speech was greeted with a chorus of mutters of acknowledgement.  "I'll inform the others," the man in charge continued "And you begin searching." 

Others?  _Shit!_  How many more were there?  The seven warriors beneath him broke up in pairs of two with the leader going back to raise the alarm.  One pair searched the chamber and for a long while Wulf was confined to his hiding place.  At the moment he had plenty of time to think about his situation.  At least now he knew who those people were.  The Silver Hand, the werewolf hunters.  And it didn't help him one whit that he wasn't one of the monsters. 

They had known, though.  They had known what Farkas was.  They had called him 'dog', a derogative for 'wolf', no doubt.  One of the guys had even mentioned Farkas' armour.  The big warrior _did_ have a breastplate with a wolf design on it, same as his brother and the other senior members of the Companions.  Oh, Talos' hairy balls!  There was no way Vilkas didn't know about his twin's condition.  Gods, what if both of them were... 

Of course they were! 

'He wears that armour, he dies!'  The words played through Wulf's mind time and time again, but a part of him shied away from the implications that came with it.  What if it meant that Skjor and Kodlak... and what about Aela?  And the others?  Torvar, Ria, Athis and Njada, Vignar, his servant and Tilma? 

Divines, what had he gotten himself into this time!?  Wulf ran his hands through his hair and beard.  A look downwards confirmed that four members of the Silver Hand were still nearby.  Slowly, he sat up, still pressed firmly against the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. 

'Alright,' Wulf thought, 'Let's think this through rationally'.  He began to redo the braids at his temples that were in danger of coming loose, because it gave him something to do with his hands. 

First fact: Farkas was a werewolf. 

Second fact: the Silver Hand were werewolf-hunters and enemies of the Companions, Farkas had said as much himself. 

Third fact: they had known that the Companions would come for Wuuthrad. 

Fourth fact: declaring enmity towards Skyrim's most renown warrior guild because of one of its members seemed a little excessive.  Damn, but Wulf didn't like where this was going. 

Fifth fact: The twins had come to Jorrvaskr at a very young age and were practically raised there by Jurgen and later by Kodlak.  Wulf doubted that two kids could have kept the condition of at least one of them a secret.  What had Farkas said?  His brother had been sick, something that had almost claimed his life.  Oh crap, this wasn't good at all. 

Another thought came unbidden to Wulf's mind: He had had sex with a werewolf.  Hell, not with the wolf per se, but the man, but still...  If he'd known, he might have run in the other direction instead of teasing Vilkas.  By now he had managed to convince himself that both of the twins had a dark secret. 

Even if they had contracted the disease at a later stage in their lives, it still explained a few things.  The trouble Vilkas had sleeping, the acute hearing, his fondness for growling, even.  The way he had behaved towards a pack of wolves when they had been on their way to the fortress in the Anthor Mountains. 

Which was well and good, but it didn't help Wulf reach a decision concerning Farkas. 

There were two magical diseases in Tamriel, lycanthropy and vampirism.  The infected were rumoured to be poor, tortured souls that turned into beasts and at night they came to feast upon the blood and flesh of the innocent and unwary.  Though few were unfortunate enough to ever meet either a vampire or a werewolf – and those who did didn't usually live to tell about it – an every child knew of the horror stories that went with those monsters. 

Only... Farkas was no monster.  Well yes, he was, but then again he wasn't.  He was Wulf's big, icebrained, cheerful friend, who valued honour and loyalty as any Nord should.  The friend who liked to chase after barmaids and who stole sweets from the kitchens.  Who was afraid of getting scolded by Tilma, and of spiders.  Who spent hours training with Ria, Athis and Torvar, working hard to improve their form and who wore a ridiculous orange scarf with pompons because it had been a gift from Wulf. 

It wasn't the conclusion Wulf had wanted to arrive at. 

But he could not abandon Farkas to the Silver Hand.  He owed his friend this much, at least. 

Besides, the other Companions and especially Vilkas, would never forgive him if he abandoned a shield-brother.  If they didn't know about Farkas' true identity they might not believe him and if they did, he had no excuse at all.  Wulf wanted to turn around and leave everything behind, but he did not want to spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder, waiting for either one of his former shield-siblings or his conscience to kill him. 

So, Wulf to the rescue, it was. 

Wulfryk told himself he was only doing this so he could personally kick Farkas' ass from here to Hammerfell for giving him such a scare, but this was one self-imposed lie he did not quite believe in. 

He didn't have his sword, but he had his knife and it slid out of its leather sheath soundlessly.  He cast another glimpse at the two members of the Silver Hand that were standing below, whispering agitatedly.  They weren't looking in his direction.  Wulf quietly lowered himself from his hideout. 

His first victim died with her throat slit and her companion joined her before the woman's body hit the ground. 

Wulfryk grabbed the corpses by their arms and one after the other he dragged them into the deep shadows of the corridor.  The woman had a waterskin and he cut it off her belt, drinking deeply to quench his thirst.  Wulf didn't pick up the fallen torches.  Let them blind any potential attackers and hide him from sight. 

Cautiously, and peering around corners, he snuck back into the circular chamber.  His pack was gone, but his weapons were where he had left them.  Sweet. 

His first course of action was to kill the remaining four warriors that guarded the entrance to the barrow in order to make sure that he and Farkas would have a way to escape and that it was clear.  Wulf wiped his knife of blood and sheathed it, picking up his sword and shield instead. 

The second course of action would be to create a distraction big enough so that he could slip past the remaining warriors unnoticed and to free Farkas.  He'd think of something underway.  Wulf was a master of improvisation, after all. 

'Teach that little shit to fear the Silver Hand', eh?  Soon they would realize that the tables had changed.  He was the hunter now. 

 

xxxx

 

Farkas lifted his head when the shouting began. 

He had woken to find himself chained to a wall, suspended by the heavy fetters around his wrists.  The Nord's head had lolled to the side and he beheld the solid manacles and chains that were bolted to the wall.  He struggled to get to his feet, noticing the pull around his ankles and the rattle of his shackles. 

Getting up felt like a small victory, even if Farkas was supported by the wall at his back.  He was grateful for it, or he might have fallen over.  As he stood there, he slowly became conscious of other sensations, like the cold floor under his feet.  Or the fact that he was naked and chained to a wall.  That part was important, so it bore repeating. 

He wasn't dead though.  That part was essential. 

Farkas hissed in pain when the blood began to flow back into his hands after being cut off for a while.  Sharp pinpricks of pain blossomed in his palms and fingertips, and spread towards his lower arms, and then it became worse, because his hands began to itch and he couldn't scratch them.  Farkas opted for making a fist and opening it to speed up the unpleasant process.  In addition, his head hurt, but other than that he was unharmed.  A few scratches here and there, he could feel the burn, but nothing life threatening.  That in itself was unsettling.  Why hadn't they killed him yet?  The Silver Hand never spared any werewolves. 

They had probably something unpleasant planned.  Too bad Farkas did not intend to stick around long enough to find out what it was. 

He had heard of thieves who could escape any kind of cuffs within seconds, but there was no way his large hands would fit through the opening.  He would have to settle for ripping the chains out of the wall and he began with it straight away, straining against his bonds with all his strength.

One of his captors noticed his unsuccessful attempts and sneered at him in disgust, informing his friends that their prisoner had woken, but overall the Silver Hand paid him little heed, seemingly preoccupied by something else. 

When his wrists were rubbed raw and his strength began to waver, Farkas gave up on his break out attempt – for the moment.  He looked around and wondered what had happened to Wulf.  He hadn't been brought here and the Silver Hand wasn't in this state of agitation because of Farkas.  Maybe Wulf had escaped.  The Companion wouldn't blame his friend – though he had no idea whether he could still call the man such – if he left him here.  He knew that the beastblood wasn't accepted outside of the Circle.  Werewolves were feared and hated.  It surprised the warrior how much the thought of Wulf detesting him hurt.  He had genuinely liked the man. 

At least one of them would get out alive.  Farkas hoped that Wulf would take care of his brother; Vilkas wouldn't take the news of his passing well. 

Before such gloomy thoughts could further poison his mind, a blood-curdling shriek tore through the barrow, followed by a loud, drawn-out howl. 

"He's here!" a woman shouted. 

"Let's get that dog!" a man next to her spat. 

And then sheer chaos broke out when another warrior burst in and breathless he forced out, "Draugr!  They're attacking... in force!  That bastard... ," the man had to pause to gasp for air, "Tied Evett, Roslyn and Ian up and woke every single, fucking dustman in this goddamn tomb!" 

At once, all the members of the Silver Hand jumped into action and, arming themselves, they charged out into the battle against the undead to help their brothers-in-arms.  Only two remained to keep an eye on Farkas; he hardly needed guarding, as he wasn't going anywhere at the moment. 

Distantly, from the depths of the barrow Farkas could hear the ring of steel as swords clashed and the shouts and screams of humans dying.  The Companion had to admire his friend's resourcefulness, although the cold-blooded act of setting up human bait for the draugr was enough to send shivers of dismay down his spine. 

A soft noise made the Companion look up.  The tiniest of pebbles skidded across the floor, making so little sound that even Farkas' sensitive ears could barely make it out.  A heartbeat later Wulf's dark silhouette appeared in the doorway, sword and shield in hand. 

The Companion's eyes slid to the two members of the Silver Hand, who were watching the wrong exit.  He lifted two fingers and thought he could see Wulf nod. 

With only the faintest whisper of leather on stone, his friend stepped into the chamber and began to make his way towards the two unsuspecting men. 

His attempt at stealth was foiled by sheer bad luck when one warrior turned back to Farkas, undoubtedly to spew some disparaging remark.  The man's eyes widened in shock when he saw Wulf, who promptly charged the Silver Hand with a fierce war cry, defeating his foe after a short exchange of blows. 

The warrior's friend apparently was forsaken by courage entirely, because he left his comrade to die, and ran. 

Wulf didn't pursue him, he had to get Farkas out of these chains, whilst their enemy was distracted. 

"Now look what you've gotten yourself into," Wulf said with a grin, clucking his tongue.  He approached the Companion, who – thank the Divines for that – was in his human form once again.  "Let's get you out of here, Bright." 

"I didn't think I'd see you again," Farkas confessed and felt relief wash through him.  Not because of his rescue, but because he still had a friend.  One whom he owed an apology.  "I hope I didn't scare ya," he tried, weary to breach the werewolf-issue. 

"Nah," Wulf replied and began to pick the locks on Farkas' manacles. "You're just a puppy, not a draugr!" 

Both men shared a laugh that was cut short when Farkas heard another sound, that of approaching footsteps.  Wulf was busy working on the last manacle on the Companion's right hand and didn't notice the warrior, the one who had run earlier, returning. 

Farkas did and he cried out in alarm "Wulf, he's got a –," the big warrior heard the twang of a string let loose and Wulf's scream as the arrow hit him in the abdomen, just as the Nord had turned to face their foe. 

The Silver Hand warrior's hands were shaking as he reached for another arrow. 

Wulf fell to his knees, dropping his lockpicks in favour of supporting himself on his hand, the other gripping his left side.  He no longer was making a sound, but his mouth was open in a silent cry. 

The archer managed to nock a second arrow and drew the string taut.  Wulf lifted his head and extended a hand in a gesture similar to that of surrender, only a fiery orb shot from his fingers to engulf his adversary. 

Farkas watched in horror as the second arrow hit Wulf high in the shoulder, passing right through and striking the opposite wall with a loud clatter.  His friend didn't get up again.  The Companion saw the tears streaking his face and heard his laboured, irregular breathing. 

And then the worst thing happened: Farkas heard more footsteps, the tread heavy and unhurried.  "Wulf, you've got to open the last lock, somebody else is coming," the Companion coaxed, anxiously pulling on the last chain restraining him, but he couldn't reach his friend. 

Wulf had done so much already, Farkas would get them out, he'd fight his way through the entire Silver Hand, if he had to.  If only Wulf unlocked that one damned manacle. 

Farkas saw a warm, golden light and recognized it for what it was: healing magic.  He knew how exhausting the magic was, saw it drain his friend's last reserves.  It didn't stop the bleeding, but it must have dulled the pain, because Wulf managed to roll over and to crawl to where he had dropped the lockpicks.  Farkas used his free hand to help him to his feet, holding his friend up, when the other man's legs buckled. 

Wulf gripped his lockpicks with a desperate force and inserted two into the keyhole. 

"Don't bother," a deep voice said suddenly, the tone deceptively kind and belied by the action of the man drawing a silver sword. 

They had run out of time.  Wulf rested his brow briefly against the Companion's shoulder.  Farkas felt the tremors that ran through his body, smelled the blood.  They were close enough that it smeared across his bare chest. 

There was nothing he could do.  Shield brothers were supposed to protect each other.  "I'm sorry, Bright," he heard Wulf's quiet whisper. 

Wulfryk raised his own blade in answer to the threat and the other man chuckled mirthlessly.  They all knew he didn't stand a chance, injured as he was. 

Farkas gripped the last chain that held him prisoner with both hands and, stemming his feet against the wall, he began to pull at it with a desperate force.  But the shackles remained in place, the bolts screwed too deeply in the stonework to give way.  He stopped his futile attempts, cursing and praying, both.  But the gods didn't listen that day. 

It was painful to watch, the way the Silver Hand warrior took apart Wulf' defence, ultimately knocking the blade from the dark haired man's grip, before kicking the legs from out of him.  Wulfryk went down hard, all breath leaving him and the pain of having his wounds jarred so badly nearly knocking him unconscious.  He rolled to his side, eyes scrunched shut in pain and curled up, trying to protect his injuries. 

His enemy's sword came to rest against his neck, pushing deeper, drawing blood.  Wulf tried to ward it off, gripping the blade in desperation, but the sharp edge sliced through the leather of his gauntlets, biting into his palm and slickening his grip with his own blood. 

Wulf opened his eyes, to cast one last look at the man who stood above him and at the other one, for whom he was now suffering.  He hoped his last action would be worth it. 

Farkas wasn't sure what he saw then, as the Silver Hand warrior went rigid, all muscles tense until he began to shake and foam formed at his mouth.  When Wulf's hand fell away, the man too fell, lifeless. 

 

And then it was over and Farkas was left, powerless to help.  He could not say how long it took until the rest of the Silver Hand began to file in, fewer than there had been at first by half and many that were injured.  There were gasps and shouting as the men and women realized what had happened, that their quarry had almost escaped, playing them all for fools.

One man kicked Wulf's prone form hard, right in the spot from which the arrow was protruding.  The body turned over, onto its back, but there was no reaction from the man.  No cry of pain, no clenching of a fist, not even the flutter of an eyelash. 

"Dead," the man proclaimed with a satisfied smirk he directed at Farkas. 

But for once the Companion didn't pay attention to his captors. 

He had come back for him.  Wulf had come back for him in spite of everything that had happened and it was the Companion's fault they were here, in this fix.  Because he was so goddamn _stupid_. 

Farkas fixedly stared at the man lying at his feet, tried to see anything but how Wulf's life blood flowed out, to collect in a growing puddle around the man's motionless body. 

Anything but those blue eyes, that stared sightlessly at the ceiling. 

Farkas watched his friend for a sign of life, praying for a reaction: movement, the rising of a chest, a groan. 

There was nothing. 

_Dead._


	18. BTS

"Lydia!  Lyyydiaaa!!"  Signy's excited shout carried across the training grounds that were located behind and slightly below Dragonsreach. 

For a single heartbeat Lydia paused mid-swing, then twisted her sword to the side, dodged, spun and impaled the practice dummy upon her blade.  Another kill after a fierce fight against the straw man.  The warrior grinned with joy at the battle, even if it was only in practice.  Not that she needed much of that, after all, her imaginary enemies were always so much better than her real ones. 

She stood, breathing heavily, and brushed a few stray hairs out of her eyes, running her forearm over her sweaty face.  It was a frosty morning, but she had been swinging her sword for the better part of an hour now and did not feel the nip that was in the air.  Although if she did, Lydia would not have let the cold affect her; the warrior was tough, even for a Nord.  One didn't become the guard's best by spending one's time in front of the hearth. 

"I'm here," Lydia answered, more quietly than she'd intended to due to being out of breath and followed it up with a loud, "Over here!!" 

When Signy did not immediately spot her, Lydia stepped forward and waved, and then her friend was practically flying down the steps.  The redheaded guard skidded on some gravel and came to an abrupt stop, almost knocking Lydia over in her hurry.  Her spirits not dampened in the least, Signy was all but bouncing on the spot. 

"Lydia, you won't believe it!" the other woman began. 

Lydia smiled indulgently, wondering why her fellow guard was so flustered. 

Signy was small for a Nord, but sturdy, her bulk coming from muscles and fat in equal measure.  Nobody would suspect that the cheerful redheaded girl with pigtails was deadly with any kind of weapon, a warrior with the heart of a mountain cat.  And, not easily excitable. 

Both women were guards of the Jarl's Keep and there wasn't much they had not seen, but apparently today was one of these rare days when something really noteworthy had actually happened.  Lydia didn't have to wait long to find out what it was. 

"Irileth has been asking for you, the Jarl wants to see you," Signy continued, gesturing animatedly for her friend to follow her. 

"Alright," Lydia answered.  "Just give me a few minutes, I'll have a change of clothes, I'm all sweaty."  And with a sniff she confirmed "And I stink." 

"There's no time," Signy interrupted "They want to see you _now_!"  And with those words she grabbed Lydia by the hand and began to drag her across the courtyard, in the direction of the keep. 

"Wait, my sword– ," Lydia protested, futilely reaching out for the hilt of her training weapon and missing it by inches. 

"You can put it away later," Signy countered without slowing down, "Give that poor dummy a break." 

They rounded a corner in the courtyard and cut short their way by trampling right across the keep's well-maintained lawn, avoiding only a cluster of half-wilted plants that looked to be pretty done in by the cold already.  A stone path took them to a corridor with high arches and a staircase that wound up and from which Dragonsreach could be entered through a back door.  Signy had the keys and when she pulled them out, Lydia used her friend's distraction to pull her hand out of the other woman's grip.  Which was bone-crushing, by the way. 

"Alright," Lydia stated, crossing her arms so she wouldn't be dragged along once more.  Signy had unlocked the door and was motioning for her to pass through, but Lydia refused, asking instead "What is it you're not telling me?" and tapping her foot.  Signy was terrible at keeping secrets and Lydia wouldn't bulge before she had disclosed this one. 

Signy sighed, giving up on forcing her stubborn, fellow guard along and making a long face she reluctantly answered, "It's supposed to be a surprise." 

"You know I don't like surprises," Lydia insisted. 

"Always be prepared, even for the unknown," Signy quoted their weapon master and both women shared a grin. 

"Fine," Signy finally caved in, her eyes roving across the empty courtyard.  She closed the door she had been holding open to this point, but did not lock it and leaned against it, effectively preventing anybody from walking in on their conversation by accident.  Beckoning Lydia to come closer she whispered, "It's all very secret –yet. 

The Jarl hasn't confirmed anything so far, but rumour has it there's going to be a new Thane." 

"Says who?" Lydia wanted to know and Signy had to keep from banging her head against the wall, because her friend hadn't caught up to the most important part of the news. 

"Ange," the redheaded guardswoman explained.  "And she's got it directly from Vald." 

Who was a drinking buddy of Hrongar, Jarl Balgruuf's younger brother. 

"He'd know.  So there's going to be a new Thane," Lydia mused and shrugged indifferently, but after one look at her friend she groaned loudly.  "And I've just missed something, right?" she inquired of her friend who was regarding her with one eyebrow raised. 

"Right," Signy replied.  "And what's a Thane gonna need?" 

"A house?" Lydia replied, not quite sure where this was going. 

"Aaaand," Signy prompted, waving her hand impatiently.

"Titles, a sign of his position," Lydia counted out, "A houseca-".  She stopped suddenly and squealed loudly; a most un-warrior-like sound.  "Oh, Gods!" 

"Shht!" Signy silenced her with a dark look and Lydia immediately clasped her hands in front of her mouth, but now it was her jumping up and down in exhilaration. 

"Are you sure?" she asked breathlessly when, after a short while, she was sure she no longer would crow like an adolescent girl. 

"I don't know for sure," Signy reminded her, not wanting her friend to be disappointed should things work out differently, although it was highly unlikely they would.  "But well, he's going to need a housecarl." 

"I can't believe it," Lydia chanted.  "I can't believe it." 

"Alright, we've dallied long enough."  With those words Signy brought her friend back to Nirn and opened the door to the keep again, giving Lydia a small shove.  "In you go.  Oh, and I didn't tell you anything!" 

Lydia put a finger to her lips to show her friend they were sealed tight, though she could not stop grinning.  Turning her back to the door she walked up one flight of stairs, then down another and from there into the hall that was behind the Jarl's throne room.  It was empty, which was not unusual; the guards were stated on the second floor, where the private chambers of the Jarl and his family were situated. 

Lydia stretched out her hand and almost pressed down the handle of the heavy oaken doors that led to the throne room when, just in time, she realized one thing. 

Divines, but she was still grinning like an idiot.  She couldn't help it, she was just soo happy, but... she couldn't go in there like that.  They would know that she knew and it wouldn't be hard to deduce who had told her...

"Stop it you dolt!" she told herself and bit her cheek, hard enough to taste blood.  It didn't help though, as soon as she unclenched her teeth the huge grin returned.  For a little while she tried unsuccessfully to regain her composure, but that damned smile just wouldn't leave her face.  Great.  Trying to suppress it, she'd either look like she had eaten a lemon, or maybe like she had a bad toothache. 

"Keep it together, Lydia," the warrior muttered.  "Think about something sad.  Orphans.  Drowned kittens."  Damn, it still didn't work. 

Why was she so worked up over something that she was not even sure was going to happen?  Even if there was a new Thane, she might not be appointed his housecarl.  Instead the position could go to a more experienced warrior.  Wes the Bold, for instance.  Or that dumb cow Eren. 

Now _that_ thought wiped the smile right from her face.  Finally.  Such silly behaviour was unfitting for a warrior of her standing.  It was unprofessional.  Lydia sniffed.  She was _this_ close to her greatest dream coming true. 

Well, standing here would not make her any wiser.  She retied her hair into a ponytail and straightened her shoulders before entering the throne room.  Her heart was hammering wildly and her belly churned worse than after a night of drinking, but her stride was confident. 

They were all there.  Irileth, a few other chosen guards, the steward, the Jarl himself.  Signy had not been exaggerating, something was definitely afoot.  As she came to a stop in front of the throne and saluted her Jarl, Lydia couldn't but notice that she was the only one not in formal attire.  And she still stank.  They were mostly warriors here, but the thought was not pleasant, nonetheless.  Maybe Hrongar's smell would overshadow her own.  Lydia swore that man never bathed, unless he was too drunk to navigate the front stairs and fell into the pool below. 

Banning such thoughts for the time being, she said, "My Jarl?"

"Stand easy, Lydia," Irileth greeted her protégée. 

Lydia had been training under the Dunmer warrior for the past years and her eyes wandered briefly to the housecarl before returning to Balgruuf. 

Finally, the Jarl spoke up.  "It won't take long, Lydia." 

_Was that good or bad?_

"What you are going to hear here is not known in the Hold thus far.  You have heard about the dragon that attacked Whitewatch Tower, I assume." 

Lydia nodded her head.  Everybody knew about the dragon, hell, it was all the soldiers talked about anymore. 

"The man who had slain the beast, I am granting him the title Thane of Whiterun.  It was my intention to appoint you as his housecarl, if you are willing," the Jarl continued. 

'Don't squeal, don't squeal, don't squeal,' was running through Lydia's head like an incantation and miraculously she did not.  Swallowing, because she found her voice suddenly gone, Lydia answered thickly, "I would be honoured, my Jarl." 

It was really happening.  All she had ever dreamed about. 

The Jarl and Irileth smiled, happy with her acceptance of her new position. 

Balgruuf's housecarl briefed her on the man who was her Thane now.  "A Nord with dark skin.  Black hair, a beard, blue eyes.  You may recognise him by his white war paint, a white, curved streak across his left brow.  He is with the Companions, Wulfryk is his name.  When I saw him, he was in the company of Farkas, they seemed to be on a mission.  He probably hasn't returned yet." 

"One more thing," Jarl Balgruuf pointed out when Irileth was finished.  "There is word amongst the soldiers that this man might be Dragonborn.  I would have dismissed it as superstition, had I not heard the Greybeards' call myself.  Our new Thane has a journey to High Hrothgar before him, you must ensure he embarks upon it.  Until we have no more doubts, I do not want a single word breathed about a Dragonborn, in- or outside the keep."  The Jarl regarded everyone present with a stern gaze.  "This applies to all of you." 

Satisfied, when they all nodded, Balgruuf once more turned to Lydia.  "Thank you, Lydia.  I am sure you have a lot to prepare and that you are eager to share the news with your friends now."  There was a small, knowing smile playing around the Jarl's mouth when he said these words.  "I won't keep you any longer." 

 oooo

"How did it go?" was the first thing Lydia heard when she exited the throne room. 

"Don't you have a post to guard?" she asked Signy, who was apparently bent on trailing her today. 

"Yeah, I traded with Eren," Signy waved her off.  "Well?!" 

"Well," Lydia drew the word out.  "I am a housecarl!" she shouted when she could keep the news in no longer. 

"I knew it," Signy exclaimed and caught her friend in a crushing hug, the two of them laughing and squeezing the life out of each other. 

They let go after a while, breathless and Lydia began to pinch her cheeks that had begun to cramp from the constant smiling.  "Ow, ow, ow," she sang, closely followed by, "What do I do now?" 

"You go to Jorrvaskr and, well, meet him, I guess." 

"Irileth said he might not be there," Lydia protested.  Now that the time had come for her to meet her Thane she was feeling nervous all of a sudden. 

"Only one way to find out," Signy said, shrugging. 

"Ugh," Lydia groaned, "I can't go there the way I am now.  I've got to make myself presentable."  She began to walk in the direction of the barracks and her small home where she planned on taking a bath and having a change of clothes.  And maybe she'd polish up her armour a bit. 

"Ha!" Signy snorted.  "You mean pretty yourself up!" 

"Hey!" Lydia shouted in mock-outrage and punched her friend's arm playfully. 

"Don't you try to deny it."  The redhead waggled a finger in the taller woman's face.  "Not that I can blame you," she admitted immediately after.  "A dragon-slayer, huh?  Think he'll be handsome?" 

"What does it matter?" Lydia asked, feeling slightly uncomfortable.  She couldn't gossip about her Thane like that – or could she?

"Well, do you?" Signy continued, completely ignoring her response. 

"I certainly hope so," Lydia replied, surprising even herself.  "Though as I said, it shouldn't matter," she added hastily.  "Here we are," she said, opening her door.  "Wish me luck for later, will you?" 

"Always," her friend replied with a wink and with a sigh she added, "I guess I better return to my post now.  Eight at the 'Mare, as usual?" 

"I'll come, if I can," Lydia answered and waved goodbye. 

"Good.  Because I want to know _everything_." 

 oooo

It took some time, but finally the newly minted housecarl was ready.  She was feeling better now that she had had some time to regain her composure.  Somehow though, everything felt like a dream to Lydia at the moment, as she made her way through the Plains District and up, to the Wind District, where Jorrvaskr stood on a small hill, as it had done for centuries. 

Born in Whiterun, Lydia had been raised on stories about the Companions.  The warriors of Jorrvaskr were legendary, and not just because of the glorious deeds of the past.  They stuck mostly to themselves, though.  The Companions weren't exactly a part of Whiterun, the order of warriors was far older than the city.  Whiterun wouldn't be the city it was without the Companions.  It was almost as if the city partially belonged to the warriors of Jorrvaskr, although they had never pursued any political power, striving only for honour in battle and to uphold the legacy of Ysgramor, their founder. 

All this ran through Lydia's head as she took the last steps to the mead hall, until she found herself in front of the heavy double doors that were closed against the cold. 

Should she barge in and demand to see her Thane, which she had every right to do, or should she politely ask to see the man?

Lydia didn't want the Companions to think her weak, but she had manners, not many maybe, but some of them were deeply ingrained and thus she chose the courteous way and knocked. 

The door was opened after a while by a tall, dark-haired warrior with cold eyes and a look of annoyance on his face, like she had just interrupted him doing something terribly important.  A book was cradled in the crook of his right arm, so he couldn't have been too busy. 

She knew him, of course, if by sight only.  He was Vilkas, one of the senior members of the Companions, though he was still young in years.  Gods, she was so excited to finally meet these people in person – and on equal grounds, now that she had been elevated to her new position. 

"Hello, I'm Lydia- ," she began. 

The warrior cast a depreciative glance in her direction and said in a bored tone, "I'm not interested in your offer, we're not donating anything and if you're looking for work you'd better try at Dragonsreach."

And then the door closed in her face. 

Lydia's smile was slowly replaced by a frown and her feeling of excitement by anger.  She raised her fist and brought it down on the wood once more, not the hesitant knocking from before, but a firm thump.  After a moment the door opened again.

"Let's start this over," Lydia bit out, some acid creeping into her voice.  "Hello, I'm Lydia, housecarl to the new Thane, who is also a member of the Companions." 

"There is no Thane amongst the Companions other than Vignar," Vilkas retorted straight away and moved to close the door again, but Lydia's foot stopped him from doing just that. 

"There is now," she countered.  "Since the Jarl appointed him an hour ago.  I suggest _you_ go to Dragonsreach and ask him, if you do not believe me." 

Lydia smiled sweetly when she had the satisfaction of seeing the warrior slightly taken aback.  There, that'd teach him. 

Vilkas shook his head and stepped to the side, allowing her to enter.  "Apologies, housecarl," he said, polite now that she'd made her point.  "I did not know you.  We do not get many people knocking on these doors and those that do... ," he trailed off and shrugged, leaving the rest of the sentence unfinished. 

Lydia inclined her head, accepting the apology graciously.  No reason to get upset about a simple misunderstanding.  She was having a hard time to keep her eyes from roving over Jorrvaskr's interior.  Instead she trailed them on the Companion in front of her. 

"Now what was it you said about a Thane?" Vilkas inquired of her. 

"Right.  Two Companions were at the Western Watchtower when the dragon attacked.  For killing it the Jarl has granted the slayer the title of Thane," she said, all the while thinking, 'What was his name again?'

Lydia did not expect to see the big warrior collapse into a chair next to the entrance.  He was pale as a sheet and his voice slightly shook when he quietly asked, "My brother?" 

Realizing only now what she must have sounded like Lydia hurriedly reassured the distressed man.  "They're both well from what I've heard.  Declined returning to Whiterun and went on about their mission."  She cast Vilkas a worried look, he had not responded well to the news at all.  This wasn't how she had imagined the meeting to go. 

"Is everything alright?" the housecarl enquired cautiously.  "You seem upset about the Thane." 

"Because it's either my idiot brother," Vilkas cried, slamming his book down on a small table next to the chair hard enough for the wood to groan in protest and, after pausing for a heartbeat, he quietly added, "Or Wulf."

"That's the one!" Lydia cried and clapped her hands. 

Vilkas didn't speak or react in any other way for a while and when he did it was to get up and state with grim determination, "I'm going to kill him." 

 

xxxx

 

They had killed him. 

Farkas apathetically stared past the iron bars of the cage he was imprisoned in, his expression one of sorrow and grief.  People died.  Family, shield-siblings, friends.  But never on Farkas' watch.  Never.  Until now. 

He had been right there and had done nothing, unable to prevent the Silver Hand from killing his best friend.  Later, he had fought them.  When they had tried to put him back into chains, he had vented all his anger, all his frustration and all his anguish upon them. 

All for nothing.  

Though many of the Silver Hand would never rise again, in the end his resistance had been to no avail.  There were just too many of them.  Even now a dozen remained to escort the cart that was taking him to someplace unknown to Farkas.  The going was slow.  They only travelled during night and often without any light but that of the moons and stars. 

The Silver Hand had a lot of people they'd rather avoid: travellers, soldiers, the Thalmor, even the Vigilants of Stendarr.  A group of armed warriors escorting a naked man in a cage on a wagon would certainly raise suspicions. 

Farkas might have no idea where they were going, apart from it being roughly in the direction of Whiterun, but the Silver Hand apparently had plans for him.  He wasn't privy to them, though. 

All the Companion could think about was that he had failed. 

And now Wulf cold body was lying in the dark of an ancient tomb with the draugr and the spiders.  Wulf had hated the draugr.  He deserved a feast in his name and a proper burial, not to be left as food for the skeever.  His grave should be on a hill with the sun shining down on it and the wind blowing through the grass.  So that he would be warm when he looked down on the world that he had loved to travel so much.

Wulf's belongings, the pack, bow and Skyforge sword had all been taken by one woman, after she won them in a dice game against her comrades. 

Farkas had cursed the Silver Hand and they had laughed and told him it was his own damned fault.  What hurt worst was that they were right.

Farkas hung his head in shame.  Rain was falling from the skies in an endless torrent, plastering his hair to his face and washing away the traces of his mourning.  With it, at least nobody would mock him for the tears he shed for his fallen friend. 

He no longer cared about what was to happen to him.  Farkas only hoped it would be over soon.


	19. BTS

He couldn't see.  His eyes were open, he had blinked a few times just to be sure, but his vision was only filled by endless blackness.  Why couldn't he see?  And why did everything hurt? 

Wulf rolled his head to the side and groaned, the small motion causing torrents of agony to run down his neck and into his shoulder, which felt like somebody had put it on fire.  If possible, his head hurt even worse.  With every beat of his heart Wulf felt a bright flash of searing pain tear through his temples.  The chill of the stone floor helped ease the sting for a few seconds until it was warmed from his body heat and no longer gave him relief.  Without further motion to aggravate his obviously injured shoulder the sharp, acute hurt died down to a steady, angry throbbing. 

Wulfryk shivered as he lay on the draughty, hard ground and sightlessly stared up at where he supposed the ceiling was.  He must have cast a particularly powerful spell to be off this badly.  Only the explosive release of a great amount of energy that was required for destructive magic affected him thus.  And since he had just woken a few minutes ago, he must have been unconscious before. 

All of this still didn't tell him where he was though, and why.  It was probably safe to assume he had been lying here for quite a while and it couldn't hurt him to rest for a bit longer while he waited for his memory to return. 

Only now that he was aware of his surroundings, something was digging painfully into Wulf's lower back.  Bollocks!  He'd have to move. 

Judging by how much it had hurt to just turn his head, he wasn't looking forward to that prospect.  And without light he wouldn't even know where to, the darkness in the crypt was complete.  Great.  Now that memories of what had happened were slowly filtering through his sluggish mind and he remembered where he was, Wulfryk almost wished that he didn't. 

Furthermore, the mere thought of casting another spell, even if it was only a minor one, sickened him.  Although, come to think of it, he _was_ feeling nauseous.  That was new.  If he was going to throw up, he wouldn't want to do it whilst lying on his back.  So, getting up it was.  He'd start with it and see where he could go from there.  Maybe he'd manage a tiny spell. 

Well, there was no time like the present.  Steadying his breathing, Wulf carefully rolled over to his right side and, supporting himself on his left uninjured arm, he made it to his knees.  Breathing harshly through the pain he waited for it to ebb once more.  After a long moment it finally did.  There, that was better.  Wulf reached out with his hand to feel his closest surroundings and his fingers came into contact with something that was lying next to him.  Something roughly oval and big, cold and pliable under his fingers, covered in sparse hair.  A body!?  'The dead warrior,' Wulfryk thought.  _Ugh!_   How nice of the Silver Hand to leave him some company.  Disgusted, Wulf retracted his hand and wiped it on his trousers. 

If he kept going, then at this rate he'd crawl straight into a wall.  Alright, time to see if he really was up to some magic.  The sheer effort it took to focus his will almost sent him back into oblivion.  Eyes shut tight against the sudden light and the torture that was his head, Wulf clung to consciousness with every fibre of his being.  He had no idea how long it took before the world around him stopped spinning and came back into focus.  When he was capable of thought once more, he was lying on the floor again, but thankfully the softly glowing orb of light was still suspended in the air.  It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

The pale corpse of the man he had killed that lay next to Wulf was a much less jovial sight.  Somebody had stripped the Silver Hand of his armour, but nobody had bothered to touch the unconscious Nord at his side.  Apparently Wulf's long-serving, patched leather armour discouraged potential thieves from looking at him twice.  To his surprise he found that he still had the waterskin, his knife and lockpicks, except for the three that were lying broken next to where Farkas had been chained, and his pouch that contained two small healing potions as well as the half-full vial with the invisibility potion.  It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. 

Now he had to get up once more, though.  Fully intending to do so, Wulf's heart stopped in its tracks and his blood ran cold when he lifted his head.  

Because the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his gut was pretty far on top of the list of things he absolutely did not want to see after waking up inside an ancient barrow; right after its inhabitants.  He stared at it in disbelief for a long while and with a trembling hand he gingerly touched the place where the wooden shaft had pierced his armour.  Wulf had no idea how grievous his injury was, he hadn't felt anything when he had woken up, but now he knew where the nausea came from.  Though he really dreaded to find out, he had to inspect the damage. 

Very slowly and careful not to jostle the arrow he undid his armour, though Wulf had some trouble getting out of it because he couldn't move his right arm without breaking out into a cold sweat and having spots dance in front of his eyes. 

Still, despite the fact that it hurt a lot, the wound in his shoulder was the lesser evil.   The arrow had punched right through leather and the steel underneath, but that's what Nord longbows were capable of.  If Wulf hadn't bled out by now, then no major blood vessels had been hit and he wouldn't have to cauterize the wound.  That much was a relief, although he still needed to clean it and maybe later he could heal his injury.  There wasn't anything else he could do for it right now.  Bandaging it wouldn't do much good either, small but deep wounds healed better when well aired, as it reduced the chances of catching lockjaw. 

That's about as far as the good news went.  Wulfryk shivered as the cold, slightly humid air hit the bare skin of his chest.  He felt at his back, but there was no exit wound.  Had there been, he could have just pushed the arrow through.  Now he wasn't sure what to do. 

Bloody hell!  Could he pull it out?  That would depend upon the arrow itself and he had no idea what it looked like.  Although... he had been shot twice.  Maybe the other arrow was still lying around here somewhere? 

Without moving Wulf sent the orb of light to illuminate the far wall of the chamber and indeed, the broken remains of an arrow were lying there.  He crawled closer an all fours, he wasn't sure he'd manage to get up without falling flat on his face just yet.  When Wulfryk reached the wall, he leaned against it for support and lifted the other arrow that, judging by the fletching, was identical to the first one with trembling fingers and looked at its point.  It was a broadhead. 

He let his head fall back against the wall, the shards falling from his suddenly limp fingers.  "Fuck."  His voice was thick with desperation and dread. 

He'd tear out half his innards trying to pull that arrow out.  It was a wonder he had even survived this one.  The tip was shaped to cause massive internal bleeding that usually led to a quick, if mostly painless death.  Indeed, there was only a slight tenderness to his belly when he lightly pushed at it.  Because it was stuck, the arrow closed the wound it had caused.  It had saved his life.  Given time, it would kill him. 

Gut wounds, along with injuries to the head, were the worst.  For a while Wulf might be able to hold off an infection by 'healing' the wound, but it was only delay of the inevitable, not a solution. 

He had to return to Whiterun.  It was as simple as that, although first he would have to find his way out of this godforsaken tomb.  Having two feet of wooden shaft sticking out of one's abdomen might turn out to be a hindrance, though.  Wulf pulled out his knife and contemplated the best way to go about what had to be done.  With his knees pulled up he could hold the shaft, and cut through it with his left, because he couldn't muster the amount of pressure necessary with his right hand.  The procedure was slow as his left hand was clumsy and it involved a great deal of cursing. 

By the end of it there was no more than half an inch protruding from Wulf's abdomen and the Nord was feeling just about done in, his heart racing and his frayed nerves giving out on him.  He desperately wished for the comforting presence of another human being; Wulf wanted to hear a voice that was not his own.  For Ralof, he'd sell his soul to a Daedra right now, but anybody would do, really. 

There was no one however, the ringing silence of the underground chamber was disrupted only by Wulf's own harsh breathing.  It took some time before Wulf lifted his head from his knees.  While he wasn't exactly ready, he felt calmer now.  Telling himself that the worst over, he decided it was time for him to get up.  Using the wall for support, Wulf slowly rose, spreading his legs wide when the blood rushed to his head and robbed him of his vision for a few seconds.  And then he was standing.

Wulf's first steps were clumsy and staggering, but before long he found his balance.  It didn't even hurt so much.  His head and shoulder were throbbing, yes, but thankfully there was only a feeling of numbness in his lower belly.  He walked over to where his armour was lying discarded on the ground.  Wulfryk used what water he had to rinse his shoulder and after uncorking one of the healing potions he drank roughly half of it. 

The potion wasn't big, but he didn't dare to use up more than that, he might need it at a later time.  Wulf's next course of action was to dress himself.  It was chilly inside the barrow, but outside the nights would be bitter cold.  The only thing he had was his armour, his fur mantle was gone along with his backpack.  The armour was heavy though, especially the padding and mail, but without something to warm him he'd catch the cold in this weakened state, Nord or not. 

Strapping on the armour was no easier than taking it off had been and Wulf only half-successfully chocked back a scream when a buckle snagged on the wound in his shoulder.  Biting his hand he couldn't hold in the hoarse shout that was followed by a few particularly colourful curses.  The last thing on Wulf's mind was staying silent and at long last, he was done dressing. 

His struggles did not go unnoticed. 

There was a loud screech and the scrape of something heavy.  Wulf's head shot up at the sound he had come to dread in places like this.  _Oh no.  Oh no, oh please gods, no._ The sounds, magnified by the barrow's cavernous chambers, were gradually coming closer. 

It was coming for him, of that he was certain. 

He wasn't capable of climbing and there was nowhere for him to hide, although if the Silver Hand had left him for dead... Wulf let himself sink to the floor, lying stock still, trying to breathe as little as possible so his chest wouldn't move.  The draugr slowly shuffled inside the chamber. 

The light of Wulf's magical orb seemed to irritate the dead warrior and it swatted the glowing globe with its sword several times.  Wulf hadn't thought of extinguishing the light and now it was too late.  Although even if he had considered it, he didn't have the courage to face the draugr in the dark. 

After several unsuccessful attempts to chase away the light the draugr gave up, or maybe it just grew bored.  Instead, it walked up to the dead Silver Hand and poked him lightly with its sword and when there was no reaction it moved on to Wulf.  Who suddenly found himself fighting not to lose control of his bladder when the draugr bent over him. 

'Don't blink,' was his only coherent thought as the sword slapped against his side.  Thankfully, it was his uninjured one.  Wulf didn't twitch as he waited with baited breath. 

Unlike with the Silver Hand the draugr seemed unhappy with Wulf's lack of reaction and prodded him again, more forcefully this time.  And again.  When the man at its feet remained unresponsive, the cold blue glow in its empty eye sockets flickered, burning brighter, and in a dry voice it said, " _Zu'u praag hi wah kos hond us dii in vopraan_." 

They stayed like this for a long time.  Wulf's felt his eyes begin to water and he had to resume his breathing. 

And when his injured shoulder was hit, Wulf couldn't but jerk and cry out, dropping the act and curling on himself.  Through the tears that sprung in his eyes he saw the draugr lift its sword one final time. 

"Please, no," he pleaded, lifting a hand to ward off the blow that was coming. It was pathetic, but he didn't care, defeated as he was already.  Wulf didn't want to die, not now.  Not like this.  Divines, it wasn't supposed to end like this. 

" _Hin laag has kosaan dil, nuz hi praag wah lif nu._ _Daar los nid staad fah faal nahl_ ," the corpse rasped and righted itself, pointing its sword at the doorway from which it had just come. 

Wulf stared at it in disbelief.  He did not understand the words, nor could he discern any emotion in the ruined, cadaverous face, but the intent behind the gesture was a clear as daylight.  _Begone!_   Sobbing in relief, not sure if this wasn't just some cruel trick he rolled over and crawled away, putting some distance between himself and the dead warrior.  The draugr didn't come closer, only watched impassively as Wulf used the wall to pull himself to his feet once more. 

Fear drove him on as he stumbled out into the corridor and further away from the chamber he had awoken in.  Behind him he heard the creak of old bones and the scuff of feet on stone.  Wulf didn't look back, afraid of what might happen if he did.  It was the dumbest thing one could do, to assume that if he remained blind to danger it would turn a blind eye towards him, but right now he did just that.  Wulf only wanted to get out, the thought accompanying him every step of the way, very much like his silent escort.  He kept going, his mind numb and in a state of shock that kept pain and exhaustion at bay, until he wasn't sure he was capable of taking one more step. 

In front of him there were stairs.  Had there been so many stairs on their way in?  Was he going in the right direction?  Wulf looked back.  He imagined he could make out a faint blue glow far behind him.  It wasn't coming any closer, but neither was it giving up on following him.  Apparently the draugr wanted to make sure he left for good.  Wulfryk didn't know why it hadn't killed him.  He had tried to remember the words it had spoken in hope to understand them at a later time, but the guttural language was all a jumble in his head by now.  He knew he owed his life to an ancient Nord warrior dead for gods know only how many centuries.  He took another step and another.  One more, always just one more.

After what seemed an eternity Wulf came to a section he recognized; from here it wasn't far to the entrance.  He stumbled out, and into a beautiful morning.  The sun had just begun to rise and the land was still shrouded in twilight.  A dense fog hung close to the ground and reflected the rays of light with a soft glow. 

Wulf clambered up the steep and slick stairs that took him to the top of the hill.  He would see if he still had horses, if not then maybe a carriage would be on its way to Whiterun and help him out.  Careful not to slip on the hoarfrost that covered the grass in patches that had not yet been warmed by the sun, he made his descent.  Several long minutes later he heard snorting.  One of the horses raised its head and nickered when he came closer.  The animals were well and chipper, and Wulf felt the vice around his chest loosen somewhat.  It appeared the shrubbery had hidden the horses and the cart from the Silver Hand. 

He refilled his waterskin even though he shouldn't drink or eat, but while he might hold out without food, he would need the water.  There wasn't much left on the cart, Farkas and he had taken everything except some dry rations with them.  Wulf threw the bag across the back of one of the horses and next he bridled both animals, and cut the long reins down to a length fit for riding.  Standing atop the cart allowed him to mount one of the horses without effort, as the beasts wore no saddles. 

Kicking his mount into motion and holding the leading rope of the other in his left, alongside with the reins, Wulf left behind the cart.  His intent was to ride cross country and to cut short as much of the distance to Whiterun as possible.  Only because he stayed off the main road, did Wulfryk come across the tracks a few hundred yards away from the barrow.  There was a set of deep furrows where a heavily loaded wagon had rolled across the soft ground of the tundra.  Next to it the grass had been trampled by many feet. 

Wulf was no tracker, but this was a trail even he could follow easily.  And there was no doubt in his mind as to who had left it.  He did not know where the Silver Hand had gotten the carriage from; maybe they had hidden it much in the same manner as the two Companions had done, only in another place. 

The question was: should he follow it?  Although it looked to be going roughly in the direction of Whiterun, he had no idea whether the trail wouldn't veer off later.  And it would cost Wulf precious time, time that he was already out of.  But if he found Farkas, maybe he could... what?  Save him?  That had worked out well the first time.  No, he couldn't risk it. 

He couldn't give up, either. 

One day, Wulf swore.  For one day he would follow the tracks and if he found no sign of the Silver Hand by then, then may the gods have mercy on his soul if he returned to Jorrvaskr without his shield-brother. 

Despite the rough terrain, he made good time.  Throughout the day there was a soft drizzle, but it must have been raining earlier for the ground to be so very mushy.  The horses ploughed through tall grass, mud and puddles with ease but Wulf could imagine how bad the going must have been for a wagon.  The thought gave him hope. 

When dusk fell, he caught up to the procession.  They had only a few fires lit and were camped around a cluster of rocks and twisted trees, seeking shelter from the rain no doubt.  Wulf could make out that most of the Silver Hand was sitting around the fires, except for a few dark shadows that were patrolling the perimeter of the camp.  In the middle of it there was the wagon that had led him here and although it was getting too dark to see, Wulf thought there was something on top of it – a cage?  He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew that he had just found Farkas. 

Waiting for the light to get just a bit worse, he hobbled his horses together with the lead rope; having no equipment he had to improvise.  Then, Wulfryk approached the camp cautiously, slipping between two patrolling warriors when they stopped to chat for a while.  He hid in the deep shadows behind a large rock and inched his way closer from there, until snippets of conversation reached his ears. 

"I know the going is bad– ," one man said. 

"Bad going?" a second voice interrupted agitatedly.  "Are you fucking joking?  That's no going at all!  It took us the better part of the day to pull out that damned wagon out of this bloody swamp!  The horses are tired, the morale is for shit and the only one who doesn't have to move a finger is the dog.  We should make him walk and take the wagon ourselves!" 

"Oh, yes!?" the first man snapped.  "Should I find you a collar and a leash then?" he asked sarcastically, effectively putting an end to the talk. 

Wulf moved on, finding a better hiding place in a hollow under an overturned sapling.  It wasn't comfortable and his cover wouldn't last for one minute in daylight, but on an overcast night he was all but invisible for as long as he did not move.  Two horses were grazing not far away and the wagon stood next to them and if he strained his eyes Wulf could just discern Farkas' hunched over form.  Although the only reason he knew that this was his friend was because it couldn't be anybody else. 

As he lay on the soft ground debating his next course of action whilst his clothes were getting more wet by the minute, Wulf's head snapped up when he saw a woman walking by.  There was nothing special about her, except for the sword she was carrying at her hip.  It was his.  He stared after her, his mind conjuring up plans of revenge that he regrettably couldn't follow through with at that moment. 

"It's getting dark, we should move on," the woman spoke to a warrior who stood nearby, warming his hands at a small brazier. 

"In a bit.  Let the others rest for a while longer," the man replied with authority. 

"Damn this weather," the woman complained and took off her gloves, rubbing her hands together.  "I can't wait until we're back at the 'Rock." 

"Me too," her companion agreed. 

"So where do we go from here?" the Silver Hand wanted to know next.  "We can't keep going like this.  It'll take forever!" 

"We have to," her comrade responded calmly.  Judging by his tone, he was the leader.  "If anybody sees us all of this will have been for naught.  Once we're past Whiterun the going will be better."  This said, the man began to pat himself down, obviously searching for something. 

When he pulled out a leather satchel the woman kept up her questioning.  "Think Krev well be angry at us for being late?" 

"No," the man answered absent-mindedly as he smoothed out a square piece of leather and tilted it so that the glow of the coals would illuminate it. 

 _A map?_   Wulf's heart began to race, his hand fumbling around in the pocket at his side. 

"I don't think she'll care about anything but the dog," the man continued, before his finger stabbed a point on the map. 

There was a loud sigh of relief.  "Don't fancy crossing the Skinner." 

_The Skinner?  That didn't sound good at all._

By now the two members of the Silver Hand were engrossed in discussing the best route to wherever it was they were going, but Wulf had stopped listening.  It wouldn't help him anyway.  What he needed was to catch a glimpse of that map.  At last his fingers closed around the thing he had been looking for and he uncorked the vial with his teeth, downing the contents in a single gulp.  The sensation was no more pleasant than it had been the first time he had taken the potion, but he had anticipated it.  Rolling from his hiding spot, Wulf grunted with pain.  In his excitement he had quite forgotten about his injury. 

Jaw clenched against another sound, he got to his feet and snuck up to the two warriors.  The potion had worked once.  There was no reason it shouldn't work a second time, but Wulf still felt sweat prick at his back and brow when he looked over the woman's shoulder, trying hard not to breathe down  her neck. 

In the middle if the map, in the hold of Eastmarch, a tower was painted.  Gallows Rock was written above the circle in a bad scrawl.  This had to be it, 'the Rock' that they had mentioned.  For another second or two Wulf stared at the map unblinking, trying to remember as much as possible. 

And then it was time for him to move again.  He took a step back and another and then Wulf jogged across the camp to slip between two boulders that stood fairly close together.  Breathing hard he leaned back against the smooth rock and let himself sink to the ground.  Maybe he shouldn't have run.  His battered body protested against the exercise with every laboured breath Wulfryk sucked in, but his fear of discovery had spurned him on.  It took some time for his hammering heart to slow its pace; for the spots to stop dancing in front of his eyes. 

Wulf was now much closer to the cart than he had been and when he chanced to sneak a peek from behind the boulder, he also saw that it was too heavily guarded for him to try anything.  Two warriors stood to each side of it and should anything happen to them; the others weren't far enough away.  Apparently the Silver Hand had learned from what had happened in the barrow. 

At least their numbers had been decimated somewhat.  Wulf had counted eleven people in total.  Too many to take on, even without injury.  Looking at Farkas, who was a picture of misery, an idea began to take form.  He couldn't help his friend right now, but maybe he could give him hope. 

Wulf picked up a pebble and tossed it at one of the horses.  It hit the animal on the rump and the horse nickered unhappily and tried to walk away, pulling on the rope.  Another pebble and the second horse joined the first. 

"Whoa boy," the closest guard tried to calm them down, but when the horse wouldn't stop, he walked away to give its nose a pat. 

"What's going on back there?" somebody shouted. 

"Nothing," the guard hollered back.  "The horses just tried to wander off.  I think they've had enough of resting." 

This was Wulf's chance.  He threw a third stone, this time at the cage.  It hit the man inside and Wulfryk saw his friend jerk and look around. 

"Come on, Bright," Wulf encouraged him in a whisper, frustrated because Farkas kept staring in the wrong direction.  

Wulf and tossed another stone and this time it Farkas' temple.  _Shit!_   "Sorry, Bright," he muttered and groaned when the Companion buried his head in his hands.  "Look up!"  But Farkas didn't stir again. 

All of a sudden there was a burst of activity throughout the camp.  For one second Wulf thought he had been discovered, though soon he realized the Silver Hand was only preparing to move on.  The guard returned and hitched the horses to the wagon and then they were off to Gallows Rock and Wulf was left behind, watching them disappear into the night. 

The old fortress was far away and judging by how quickly he had caught up to the Silver Hand, their going had to be extremely slow.  Wulf would have enough time to alert the other Companions. 

"Hang in there, Farkas," he told his friend, knowing full well that the warrior couldn't hear him.  "I'll ride for help and we'll get you out of there."  It was a promise, one he intended to keep.  Wulfryk turned away and walked back from where he had come.  He had a long ride ahead of him. 

Without a saddle and stirrups to support himself in, trot was unthinkable and gallop was a torture.  So Wulf settled for walking his horse almost without break for the first two days.  He was wide awake in the strange way that happened to people who suffered from lack of sleep, but his condition was getting worse by the hour.  He took little sips of water from time to time and by the middle of the second day he couldn't stand the hunger anymore and chewed some bread.  Almost immediately after his stomach had begun to cramp, leaving him in a cold sweat, but without food he'd be too weak to ride on.  When Wulf went to sleep that night, he sincerely feared he might not wake in the morning.  He had been healing his side whenever he had enough energy, but his efforts were having less and less effect as he grew tired.  He drank one potion that evening, saving up the half-full one for later use. 

Two more days of hard riding and Wulf would reach Whiterun.  It had been almost four days since he had woken up in the barrow.  The cramps were coming more frequently, too.  Wulf was feeling alternately hot and cold; he had awoken with a fever, but no more energy to heal it.  His shoulder hurt, his head hurt and his belly was bloated and there was a lump distorting his left side, where the arrow tip and its shaft were still embedded in his flesh.  He had begun to run out of time.  Bent over his mount's neck, he tried to block out the pain and focus only on reaching his destination. 

A day before Wulf arrived at Whiterun, the horse he was riding broke down under him.  The animal had suddenly lunged to one side, tossing its head high, and then its legs buckled and it lay down almost gracefully. 

Maybe it would get up again once it had rested?  Wulf didn't have the heart to kill it, even if was probably the merciful thing to do. 

"I'm sorry," he told the beast that had faithfully carried him this far and slid down its side to remove the bridle. 

He had never ridden a horse to death before.  Guilt-ridden, he turned away so he wouldn't have to watch its suffering.  The second horse's condition wasn't much better, it was covered in dirt and the joints in its slender legs were swollen, but it was still standing.  Wulf led it to a stump and clambered onto its back.  He had to whip it hard to get it away from its dying friend, and then he was riding again. 

By midday he was passing in and out of consciousness, the rocking motion of the horse's gait lulling him into a state of sleepiness that was only interrupted when he had to stop to let the heaves pass, dry retching over his mount's side.  He had drunk the last of the healing potion in the morning and there was nothing now that would help ease his pain. 

Wulf's heart beat too fast, his head spun and there seemed to be a huge weight sitting atop his chest that made breathing difficult.  When the city came into view, his greatest fear was that it was just a hallucination of his sleep-deprived mind.  The distressed shouting of the guards at the gate convinced him that it was real.  He had almost made it.  Wulf didn't understand any of their words, didn't notice the guard he almost knocked over when he kicked his steed to move faster. 

It was the clatter of hooves on stone that made Vilkas look up from the book he was reading.  A familiar figure on a dirty, lathered horse was racing up the steps to Jorrvaskr.  When he came to a halt, the rider fell off his horse rather than dismounted.  The Companion came to his side, already sensing that something was wrong by the way Wulfryk clung to his horse's mane to keep himself upright. 

"Wulf, what happened?" Vilkas began and then he realized that there had been only one rider where there should have been two.  He tried not to let himself panic when he couldn't spot the other person whose safe return he always prayed for.  "Where is Farkas?" he asked, but received no answer from Wulf, only a confused and slightly bewildered look. 

Within the blink of an eye the Companion had him against the wall by his throat.  "WHERE IS MY BROTHER!?" Vilkas roared, dread now evident in his voice and mien. 

"Alive," was the last thing Wulf managed to force out before the last shred of strength left him. 

Then, darkness swallowed him and he knew no more. 


	20. BTS

Vilkas staggered as Wulf's full weight crashed into him when the other man broke down.  The Companion only managed to keep them upright because he had already had a firm hold on Wulf before and because there was a wall beside him that he could lean on.  Something wasn't right.  Tired or not, healthy grown men didn't fall over like that.  Vilkas had to admit that he might have overreacted before, but in the split second that Wulf had failed to answer his question about Farkas, he had seen red.  Fear had raised its ugly head, compelling him to strike out.  His brother was all he had. 

Contrary to the belief of most, Vilkas knew fear.  Not for himself, but for those close to him, his brother especially.  One day, he knew, Farkas would set out without him and not return.  'Not this time,' Vilkas recalled and shakily released the breath he had been holding.  Farkas was alive, according to Wulf. 

The man himself though looked terrible, Vilkas noticed, now that he gotten a good look at his friend.  His hair was a wild mess, streaked with dirt and his face was pale and haggard with dark circles under his eyes.  The Companion lowered Wulf to the ground and gently, almost as if to make up for his earlier transgression, he touched a hand to the other Nord's brow.  Wulf was burning up.  His armour was torn in two places, something Vilkas hadn't noticed straight away. 

His heart began to race.  Maybe Farkas wasn't the one he should have been worried about.  He got up from his crouch and entered Jorrvaskr at a brisk jog, searching for his fellow Companions.  Vilkas quickly found Ria and Athis who were playing cards in the back yard, oblivious to the return of their shield-brother.  They looked up when the big warrior interrupted their game and the Dark Elf immediately put away the cards when he beheld his senior Companion's expression. 

"Vilkas?"

"I need your help," Vilkas stated curtly, interrupting anything Athis might have said.  "Follow me."

They did, without delay.  Something in his voice or manner must have alerted them to the urgency of the situation.  He led them through the front doors, where Wulf was sitting slumped against the wall, his position unchanged since Vilkas had left him.  It had only been a very short time, but the Companion felt the seconds fly by.  And with each one that passed his friend's breath grew more laboured, his heartbeat weaker. 

"Wulf!" Ria exclaimed in surprise, but her joy was short-lived.  "What's wrong with him?" 

"He is wounded," Vilkas answered, swallowing down his guilt from how he had manhandled his friend earlier and ordered, "Help me get him inside." 

Together they managed to carry Wulf inside, not an easy feat, since the unconscious Nord was a dead weight, and not a light one at that. 

"Brill's bunk," Athis gasped once they had passed the threshold, mostly for Ria's sake, who was still fairly new to the Companions and had never had to deal with any wounded. 

They took Wulf to one of the rooms on the left side that in case of an emergency also doubled as a sickroom.  Vignar's friend and servant would have to find another place to sleep for the time being, which was not a difficulty with all the empty beds in the whelp dormitory.  However, having to constantly run up and downstairs in order to take care of the wounded would pose a vast inconvenience.  Besides, the dark underground rooms of the mead hall were not the best place for healing. 

Once they had placed him on the bed, Vilkas began to undo the straps of Wulf's leather armour, his mind immediately conjuring up images of another time he had disrobed the man in front of him, under very different circumstances, though.  Divines, but he did not need those memories assaulting him right now.  Vilkas dipped his head to hide what might have been a blush.  His feelings were nothing he could influence, which didn't mean that he had to act on them. 

He began to roll up Wulf's shirt of mail, but stopped all of a sudden about one third through, swallowing to keep his stomach from turning.  There was a loud gasp and when Vilkas turned around he saw Ria gaping wide eyed at Wulf's unconscious form, her hands clasped in front of her mouth.  He had seen, dealt out and received his share of wounds, but even so the sight of the injury was ghastly, made all the worse, because Wulf was one of their own, a friend, a shield-brother. 

"Ria," Vilkas voice was deceptively calm when he spoke, "Go get Danica.  If one of the acolytes slows you down with questions, tell them it's for the Thane."  Damn the secrets and their consequences. 

The Imperial was already at the door when she stopped to ask "Thane... ?" 

"Yes.  Go!" 

To give her credit, Ria asked no more questions, but sprinted out of the room and through the front doors. 

Vilkas didn't watch her go.  He instead turned to the Dark Elf at his side who looked like he was going to be sick as he stared at the man in front of him, transfixed.  He was brought back to reality when Vilkas snapped at him, "Athis!  Boil water.  Get the medical supplies chest from Kodlak.  And clean pieces of cloth." 

The Dark Elf nodded without saying a word and then he too left.  Alone, Vilkas had to take a couple of deep breaths to collect himself.  He knew it was better to keep occupied and two whelps panicking were difficult enough to deal with.  Thus the Companion busied himself by hastily cleaning up the room, making it suitable for what was to come and creating room for the healers and the instruments they would need; a task he had done or seen done many times.  Whilst it kept his body busy, his thoughts were reeling.  Thankfully, training had taken over and he was now in the same state of mind as before a fight, where he could function without being actually conscious of the decisions he made.  The feeling was one of detachment, where everything was unreal, passing him by without actually touching him.  As the future Harbinger he could not allow himself to lose self-control, keeping an iron hold on the dread he felt rising. 

On the inside though, he was a mess.  Vilkas looked around quickly.  Nobody was here to see his weakness.  He stopped his activity and came to kneel at the bed.  After hesitating for a moment, he took one of Wulf's hands into his own, his thumbs tracing circles across the other man's skin. 

"Hold on, Wulf," Vilkas said, feeling like an idiot for talking to an unconscious man and not caring in the least. 

It was one thing, to remain strong in the face of a worthy adversary, but quite another when the man he had come to care about as more than a friend was lying on what might be his deathbed. 

"Help is coming.  Danica will patch you right up and... ," he faltered for a heartbeat "And you can go back to driving me insane."  He wasn't sure he believed his own words.  There was no reaction from Wulf. 

Suddenly the silence of the room was torn by a series of loud thuds.  It couldn't be Ria, she wouldn't bother to knock.  Vilkas swore but he let go of Wulf's hand and stood up to answer the door, running his fingers through his hair and trying to steady his breath once more. 

"Hail, Companion," a guard greeted Vilkas as soon as he opened the door.  The man looked around Jorrvaskr's interior, as if looking for something – or someone. 

"Greetings," Vilkas replied cautiously and moved to block the other man's view.  The soldier wasn't here for idle chatter, of that he was sure.  Neither was he paying the Companions a social visit. 

Everything became clear when the guard spoke up again.  "We noticed the return of the new Thane.  But– ," the soldier didn't look comfortable to be questioning a warrior of Jorrvaskr, as he avoided eye contact and kicked a small pebble "He didn't look too well.  Is there cause for concern?" 

Concern?  That was putting it diplomatically.  Vilkas did some quick thinking.  "Yes, Wulfryk is here," he admitted.  "You were right to enquire.  The Thane had been on a mission for the Companions, he has had a trying time.  I imagine he'll rest and recover for a while before he reports to the Jarl."  Gods, Vilkas needed the man to be gone before Danica arrived. 

The guard breathed an audible sigh of relief when he heard that nothing was out of the ordinary, bid Vilkas farewell and turned to leave, but was stopped by the Companion who noticed the horse Wulf had ridden on wandering around. 

"Guardsman," Vilkas called out, "Take that horse to the stables.  He looks like he could use some grooming."  There, that would take him back by another route, minimizing the chances of the soldier running into the healers. 

The guard inclined his head and took the reins, leading away the horse and no doubt preparing to report to his superior.  He wouldn't question the Companion's word, not for a while.  Vilkas only hoped that he had bought them sufficient time. 

Time, that dragged on as he waited for Ria to return with the priestess.  The Imperial woman was back before Athis was done boiling water and carrying all the supplies upstairs, thus the Companion knew that the wait could not have lasted more than minutes. It still felt like hours had passed before four people ascended the steps to Jorrvaskr. 

Danica Pure-Spring, Whiterun's head priestess and most skilled healer, had not come alone.  Acolyte Jenssen accompanied her, as well as another acolyte, a young girl with huge eyes that made her appear perpetually surprised.  Vilkas did not recall her name. 

They did not exchange greetings; there would be time for words later.  The only thing Vilkas said was, "Thank you for coming, healer." 

Danica's reply was a small, tight smile.  She was carrying a stack of small boxes and her helpers were towing a big chest between them.  Vilkas held open the doors for them and watched the small procession, that ended with Ria, pass by him.  The healers didn't need his guidance.  The Companions were often in need of their services.  He followed them inside. 

The priestess didn't immediately walk up to Wulf.  The first thing she did was to open all the closed shutters, letting in light and the cold, fresh air while Vilkas stood in the middle of the room, feeling useless.  Her goddess was in the elements, Danica could not perform any healing whilst Kynareth was locked out. 

Ria and Athis were peeking inside from the doorway. 

"I didn't dare take off his mail," Vilkas said to nobody in particular after a short while. 

"A wise decision," Danica answered softly.  "If you would help Jenssen now, please."  Despite her courteous words and their calm delivery, it was obvious this wasn't a plea. 

In a way Vilkas was glad that somebody had taken control of the situation.  The Companion knew how to kill and injure, but the healing of wounds was the province of the priests, on whom Wulf's life now hinged. 

Together with the acolyte they removed Wulf's shirt of mail, moving the injured man as little as possible.  At the sight of the second wound, Vilkas felt the hope inside him die.  When next he looked up, Ria and Athis were gone and the doors were closed.  Danica turned to face him. 

"I'm staying," Vilkas stated before she could even open her mouth. 

"Very well," the priestess gave her consent and lifted a steaming kettle that Athis must have given her.  "Stand over there." 

Vilkas did as she asked without arguing and walked up to the head of the bed and watched as Danica lightly ran her fingers across Wulf's abdomen, not flinching away from the sight before her. 

"The wound in his shoulder is healing well, but the arrow in his abdomen has poisoned his blood.  When did this injury happen?"  The priestess looked up at the Companion, expecting an answer that he couldn't give her. 

What had Lydia said?  Wulf and Farkas had been at the Western Watchtower several days ago, so...

Vilkas shook his head; his mind was numb. 

"I don't know," he admitted.  It was unlikely that Wulf had been shot on the road.  Far more likely it had happened inside Dustman's Cairn.  "Three, maybe four days," he replied and quietly added "At least."  

The look he received from the healer was sharp, as were her words.  "Then it is a wonder he is even alive." 

A hush fell over the room as the words sunk in.  Wulf's eyes shot open that very moment and Vilkas, who was standing next to his head, was the first to notice.  "He's awake!" the Companion gasped and bent over the injured man, stroking his hair "Wulf, can you hear me?" 

But his friend gave no indication of hearing him or noticing the people around him.  His eyes were open, yes, but his gaze was glazed and fixed and he didn't move other than to place one hand over his stomach.  There was a short burst of golden light and then Wulf's eyes rolled back and he was out cold again. 

"Ah."  Danica had watched the spell with great interest.  "That explains much."  Next she addressed Vilkas, who noticed that her assistants had laid out the instruments and the rest of the equipment they were going to need.  "First, we need to secure him to the bed," the priestess said and they proceeded to do just that, using thick leather belts to tie Wulf down.  "You, Companion, I want you to watch his arms.  Make sure he doesn't do that again.  Healing closes the wound, but it drains the body of energy, thus weakening it, until it cannot stave off infection anymore." 

Next, Dania handed Vilkas a bottle with some foul smelling liquid and a piece of cloth.  "Should he show signs of waking up, hold the soaked cloth to his nose, but not for longer than three breaths." 

"I hear you," the big warrior replied and sat at the side of the bed, trying to focus on anything but Danica and her fellow healers debating which way to cut.  He lightly stroked Wulf's brow and hair while one of the acolytes washed the infected area. 

It had become cold inside the room, and when a particularly icy breeze came through the open window, strong enough to billow out the curtains and to raise goose bumps on all the Nords' skin, the priestess raised her knife.  Vilkas looked away.  He was not squeamish, but neither did he want to see Wulf being cut up as he lay bleeding on the bunk like a raw slab of meat.  He only hoped that the man in his arms really was unconscious. 

What followed was a surgery that lasted for several hours in which Danica cut out the arrow tip, righted guts, thoroughly cleaned and finally closed the wound, with the use of various salves and potions, her own magic and finally thread that she used to sew shut the outer layer of skin. 

By the end of it all Vilkas was drenched in sweat, as if it was him running a fever. 

Everybody present looked tired but none more than Danica, whose healer's apron was ruined whilst her hands were stained up to the elbows.  Danica wiped a few stray hairs from her sweaty forehead, uncaring that her hand left a bloody streak across her face. 

"There is nothing more I can do now," she announced in a voice laced with weariness.  "The gods will decide whether he shall live.  Should his condition change, call for me immediately.  If he wakes up –"

"When," Vilkas interrupted the priestess.  His tone brooked no argument. 

She looked at him with sad, knowing eyes and resumed, humouring him, "When he wakes up, make sure he drinks a lot.  I have healed the wound in his gut and purged the infection to the best of my abilities, but whether his body can handle the strain, I cannot say." 

The healers left shortly after they had changed the soiled bedding in a way that spoke of a lot of practice.  Vilkas stayed behind, emotionally too worn out to do anything more but carry a ridiculously large armchair to Wulf's bedside and to fall into it.  They had bundled Wulf up in a multitude of furs and blankets to keep him warm, as Danica had claimed that he might be too weak to produce enough body heat. 

The day had passed in a blur and now that he could catch a break, Vilkas wished that there was something else he could do.  If there was nothing more left but to hold vigil, that's what he would do.  His body felt more exhausted than after a vigorous workout, but as always his mind wouldn't slow down.  Scenarios of Wulf dying ran through the Companion's head and he tried to banish them without much success. 

Vilkas punched the armrest of his chair hard enough to break something inside. He should never have given his consent to the mission.  First a dragon attack and then this.  The warrior felt the sudden urge to move, he was still too keyed up to keep still.  He paced the room at first, but then he left and first he retrieved the book he had dropped on the front porch, before he got a cup and a pitcher that he filled with water and put down on the nightstand next to Wulf's bed.  Vilkas had not caught sight of his fellow Companions and for that he was grateful.  The last thing he wanted was to answer their questions or listen to any condolences, as if Wulf had already passed away.  He assured himself that just that had not happened and sagged in relief to find his friend's breath slow, but deep and regular. 

Now, as with fighting, came the worst part.  The waiting. 

This should have been Wulf's trial, and it had become one in the worst way possible.  Vilkas wondered what other dangers he and Farkas had braved along their way.  Had they managed to secure the fragment of Wuuthrad?  That trail of thought led to his brother.  Maybe Farkas would be back soon.  Maybe he had given Wulf his horse and had chosen to walk back to Jorrvaskr. 

Vilkas wouldn't know until his brother returned or until Wulf awoke. 

He was half of the mind to charge out and go looking for Farkas, as always when his brother went away without him, but that was a foolish thing to do.  The chances of finding Farkas were slim without the beast and besides Vilkas had once rushed to a rescue where none had been needed and it was the one time when he and his twin had almost come to blows for real.  Farkas had won that particular fight and Vilkas was forced to acknowledge the fact that Farkas was a man grown.  He had to make his own way in the world, without his brother as a keeper. 

In the absence of his shield-brothers, Vilkas had spent most of his time training until he was too tired to worry, but about a day ago he was no longer able to focus on his swordsmanship.  He had picked up a book at random and sat on the front steps, waiting for his brother and friend to return.  He couldn't recall much of what he had read, glancing up every few seconds, expecting to see two familiar figures ride through the gates. 

The other Companions had not commented on his behaviour, they were used to it and had learned to avoid him and to fear his temper that was shorter now than usual. 

That particular news hadn't reached Lydia, who had come by a few times to pester him about her Thane's whereabouts.  Vilkas had refused to tell her anything more than that he was taking the test whether he would make a worthy Companion.  It hadn't sat well with Lydia, but Wulf would have to pass the proving without his housecarl.  Speaking of which, Vilkas would have to tell Lydia sooner or later that Wulf was back.  He only wanted to wait until he could give her a straight answer. 

He leaned back and resumed watching Wulf's motionless form, not rising from his spot when he heard the hunting party with Skjor, Aela and Torvar return to the mead hall.  There was a short burst of noise and laughter that quickly died down.  A silence settled over Jorrvaskr that was unusual, but not unknown. 

They chose not to disturb him and Vilkas could guess why.  By now all of Jorrvaskr knew about his dalliance with Wulf, even if they only spoke about it when they believed he couldn't hear them.  As if he didn't know it when they cast sideways glances his way.  The only one who wasn't scared off by his dark mood was Aela.  Secretly, Vilkas was glad for her company.  Wulf had been a dear friend to her and she more than anybody understood what he was going through.  Whilst they offered each other comfort, they did so without words. 

 oooo

On the evening of the third day since Wulf had ridden into Whiterun, Aela tiptoed into the sickroom to find Vilkas lying next to the bed, curled up in the huge old armchair that he had kept vigil in these past days.  She remembered him sitting like that from when he was younger, when he had listened to the elder Companions telling stories.  Despite the grave situation she had to smile – and wince.  It looked uncomfortable as hell.

The Huntress wasn't sure whether Vilkas stayed because of Wulf himself or because the man had information about his brother.  Maybe he didn't know, either.  Still the warrior had not left Wulf's bedside for longer than an hour a day. 

Aela had believed her shield-brother to be asleep, but he raised his head when he heard her come closer.  The Huntress sat next to the chair, on the floor and kept her friend company through the dark hours of the night. 

Sometime later, it could have been minutes or hours, Vilkas asked quietly, "Do you think he'll make it?" 

"Of course he will."  There wasn't even a trace of doubt in Aela's voice.  "Wulf's a strong.  And stubborn.  He will come around, you'll see." 

Other than breathing, Wulf hadn't shown any other sign of life for almost two days.  His sleep had become uneasy lately and he had tossed and even turned, but didn't wake up.  For all the talk about glory and Sovngarde, the only thing Vilkas wished for was that Wulf wouldn't be called to the afterlife by the gods.  Not yet. 

"And my brother?" 

Aela couldn't read his voice, but she tried to console her shield-brother nonetheless.  "I'm sure Farkas is fine. 

"Wulf said Farkas was 'alive' ," Vilkas stated.  "That's not 'fine'." 

"He was delirious," Aela reasoned.  You were afraid for your brother's life and Wulf told you he was alive.  I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."  She got up and rubbed his shoulders, feeling the tension in them, but also the slump, the exhaustion.  "You should try to get some sleep." 

Vilkas nodded, not bothering to argue.  It might be pointless, but he lowered his head back onto his arm and listened to Aela's nearly soundless footsteps and the quiet sound of the door closing. 

Sleep must have found him sometime, because in the morning he awoke with a jerk that sent an unpleasant spasm through his neck.  Vilkas winced and righted himself, trying to work out a painful kink out of his back, when out of the corner of his eyes he saw movement.  A fur slid off Wulf's bed to join another two that were already lying on the floor.  He had turned around again and Vilkas got up stiffly and picked up the furs, ready to cover Wulf up again when the blankets lifted entirely, as the man kicked them right off. 

There was a sigh of contentment from the bed. 

At once, all traces of sleep left Vilkas.  Next to him Wulf stirred again and opened his eyes to blink up sleepily at the man standing above him.  He then lethargically raised a hand to rub at his eyes and struggled to sit up. 

Vilkas came to his aid immediately.  "Here, let me help you," he said, hiding his joy and relief behind gruff words.  He used the discarded furs to make a backrest and sat down on the bed in order to be able to better tow Wulf into a sitting position.  The man had to be parched.  Vilkas filled a cup with water and steadied Wulf's hand when he drank. 

"Thank you," Wulf managed after his second cup, but even so his voice was dry and hoarse. 

He looked down his bare chest and rubbed at the spot where his wound had been and now only a neat line of stitches remained.  His shoulder hurt, but not much.  Though he had barely done anything, he was feeling worn out already.  Wulf let himself sink back against the man behind him.  It was comfortable, though he shivered lightly from the fresh air against his skin. 

"You'll be cold," Vilkas observed in time. 

"I'd rather be cold than cooked alive," Wulf rasped and Vilkas laughed. 

He tried to shift and realized that he was effectively pinned, but by the gods, he wasn't complaining.  If Wulf was feeling well enough to complain, he'd be fine.  It took a while for it to sink in. 

Vilkas tightened his grip around the man in his arms and reached for a blanket that he pulled over the two of them. 

"Who said you had a choice?" 


	21. BTS

They stayed like that for a while, Wulf nodding off again only to wake up shortly after, restless.  He drank more water, this time without Vilkas' help as his hand was steadier already, and inspected his former wounds closely, moving his shoulder and running his fingers lightly over scar tissue and stitches.  They would have to pull those soon, Vilkas noticed. 

“How long have I been here?”, Wulfryk asked suddenly, ripping the Companion out of his thoughts.  His voice was hoarse and raw, the words little more than a whisper, but they felt like a blessing after the silence of the past days.  

“Three days in total”, Vilkas answered.  “You have arrived on Loredas and now it is Tirdas.” 

Wulf's head fell back and he let out a pent up breath, but Vilkas could not discern whether it was relief that coursed through his friend or tiredness, or whether he was just deep in thought.  Whatever the reason, he did not want the silence to linger and promptly enquired “How are you feeling?” 

“Hungry.”  Wulf chuckled, not wasting any time with his reply.  “But better than I did when I arrived, thank you.” 

There was the opening Vilkas had been waiting, nay, hoping for.  Feeling his way, he carefully asked “How much do you remember?” 

“You mean besides being shouted at and choked?”  Wulf turned around to cast the Companion a filthy glare, letting him know that he had neither forgotten nor forgiven Vilkas for his transgression.  His tone was decidedly cooler now than it had been a few minutes ago. 

Damn, but the whelp was probably going to be insufferable from now on – as if he hadn't been before.  It was a good thing that he was bedridden for the moment and that Vilkas had no intention of repeating his past mistakes.  “Why don't I get you something to eat?”, the Companion said, a statement rather than a question.  He disentangled himself from Wulf and got up, glad that he could escape the closeness that he had craved mere moments ago.  “I’m sure Tilma has something ready, a stew maybe.” 

He had waited three days to get answers; he could wait another ten minutes.  And if a full belly made his friend more cooperative, it would be all the better.  Vilkas left the room without a backwards glance and thus he missed how Wulf's customary grin that had appeared as soon as the Companion had offered to fetch food for the sick man, grew brittle and vanished. 

 

xxxx

 

He had made it.  It was the thought that had coursed through Wulfryk's mind when he had opened his eyes to behold a familiar face, albeit in an unfamiliar room.  He knew that he had to be in Jorrvaskr and after some thought he remembered that there were a couple of rooms in the mead hall's left wing, though he had not set foot in any of them before. 

His initial feeling of relief was quickly replaced by one of growing unease and trepidation.  Sending Vilkas away had been easy in spite of the fact that after days of trying to outrun death Wulf longed for company.  When through his blurring vision he had made out the form of the big warrior sitting in front of the mead hall, he knew that he had done his part.  Somebody else would take it from here, for a while, although he had not anticipated ending up against the wall – again. 

It hadn't been the first time Wulf had been roughed up, not even by the Companion, but the circumstances certainly were unique.  Now he dreaded the confrontation that was inevitable.  Vilkas would not take the news of his brother's capture well and that was putting it mildly.  He'd probably completely lose it, either to worry or much more likely, to anger. 

And when he did, Wulfryk had no intention of dealing with the man all by himself.  It might prove hazardous to his already tattered health. 

Getting out of bed had never been one of Wulf's strengths and today it proved more challenging than ever, but somehow he made it the whole two steps to Vilkas' armchair without falling flat on his face.  A small victory and a great achievement considering the state he had been in.  The action left him dizzy and panting for breath.  Tiredness crashed over the Nord and he would have been happy to go to sleep right there, especially since his entire body ached, like he had gone through hours of rigorous training instead of lying in a soft bed. 

There were few instances that Wulf could recall when he had been bedridden, and it was no more pleasant now than it had been before.  Every instinct screamed at him to get up and move even though he knew he wouldn't make it far.  But the same intuition that was nagging him now had made him endure his injury, had kept him going way past what he had thought possible. 

Wulf shivered at the memory or maybe it was the chilly morning air that raised goosebumps on his skin and he leaned forward and snagged the blanket from the bed along with a fur to cover himself.  By now his breathing had almost returned to normal and spots no longer swam before his eyes.  He still felt weak though, even more so than when he still had been injured. 

Thankfully, Vilkas had left the door open a crack when he had departed and Wulf could hear voices from the main hall.  If he wasn't up to walking, they would have to come to him, simple as that.  Hoping that by now the big warrior was downstairs and out of hearing, he took a deep breath and bellowed “AELA!” 

It was neither as loud or strong as he had hoped and the shouting left his throat sore and burning, but the voices had gone quiet, only to be replaced by rapidly approaching footsteps.  It wasn't Aela who stuck her head through the door, but Ria, who let out a happy squeal when she saw that her friend was conscious, crossed over to where Wulf was sitting and proceeded to hug the life out of the Nord. 

While he didn't mind being pampered, Wulf was nonetheless thankful when Athis pulled her off, wryly telling her to “Let him breathe.” 

Ria playfully aimed a swat at the Dark Elf that he evaded with grace and a broad smile which had the Imperial huffing in mock annoyance.  Instead of pursuing their pretended quarrel she came to kneel next to Wulfryk and began to fuss over him, asking at least a dozen times how he was feeling and whether he needed anything.  It was heart warming to know that they had missed him when he had been gone and how worried his fellow Companions had been, although Wulf caught Athis' stifled chuckles whenever Ria got particularly dramatic. 

“I'm fine”, Wulf assured the Imperial, repeating the words automatically.  He wasn't, but he would be.  Besides, that was not important right now. 

“Look, Ria”, he finally interrupted the girl mid-sentence.  “I really need to talk to Aela.  Is she here?” 

Ria looked taken aback for a split second before she replied “Aela's outside, training with Torvar and Njada.” 

“Could you get her?”, Wulf asked, anxious for her to be gone.  Things would be easier if he could walk, but he didn't trust his legs yet. 

The Imperial woman winced in reply.  “She won't be happy with the interruption”, she sighed.  “You know, things have been quite stressful here while you were away.  Everybody seems to be on edge.  And now you want me gone”, she scolded and received a wounded look in return. 

“You know you are my favourite Companion and I would love nothing more than to spend time with you, but this really is important.” 

“You're such a liar, Wulf”, Ria said with a sweet smile and mussed his dark hair.  “I'll get Aela”, she said and stood up “But only because it's you.” 

“Thank you”, Wulf breathed in relief, but she had already left. 

Athis remained and for a while nobody spoke until out of the blue the Dark Elf enquired “How did your mission go?  Do you have the fragment of Wuuthrad?” 

Damn, but he had not thought about the blasted axe until now.  “Not with me”, Wulf lied promptly.  

His curt answer did not disencourage Athis from asking further questions.  Quite the opposite.  “Does Farkas have it with him?”, the Dark Elf wanted to know next. 

Wulfryk had no idea how much the Dunmer really knew about the guild that he was a member of.  Out of all the 'whelps' Athis struck Wulf as the most perceptive one.  It was probably safe to assume that Torvar and Ria were clueless and Njada had her head stuck so far up her ass, she was unlikely to notice anything. 

But the Elf was a wildcard.  With the longevity of the Mer he probably had more experience than even Kodlak, in spite of him looking like he was in his thirties.  Wulf didn't know how old Athis really was, the Dunmer had evaded all questions concerning his past and age as skilfully as he had Ria's blow, and usually with a witty remark on top. 

Thankfully, Wulf was saved from thinking up an answer when the door opened once more and Aela strode in. 

Her eyes widened when she saw her friend was awake and well, but all traces of surprise vanished from her face when she noticed Athis standing next to the Nord. 

“What are you waiting for, an invitation?”, the Huntress barked.  “Ria's already back in the ring and I want to see some improvement on both your footwork!” 

The last thing Wulf saw of the Dark Elf was his shocked countenance that quickly vanished as he fled his shield-sister's wrath. 

Wulfryk's own eyebrows rose at her tone that brooked no argument.  Now he knew what Ria had meant when she said that things were ‘tense’.  He also understood something that Farkas told him once, that Aela scared him sometimes.  The Huntress really could be intimidating if she wanted to be.  And now her full attention was on him.  Maybe sending Vilkas away had been a mistake. 

But when Aela walked over to Wulf, it was only to embrace him warmly and with more care than Ria.  “Thank the Gods, you're awake”, the Companion sighed.  “Things have been crazy for the past days”, she moaned.  “Everybody's just stopped working and was hovering in your doorway and Vilkas has been downright going mental.” 

In spite of himself Wulf had to chuckle.  “Did you miss me?”, he asked cheekily. 

“No”, Aela sulked and rested her chin on the top of his head, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck. 

“See?”, Wulf asked her, smiling up at his friend.  “I remember telling you once I'd grow on you.” 

“Like an ulcer.” 

Wulf's laugh was cut short when a sharp, piercing pain shot through his side that had him cursing a blue streak.  Aela looked on in sympathy as he gently massaged his abdomen with a grimace and handed him a full cup from the nightstand.  The water did not help ease the sting, but drinking gave Wulfryk some time to compose himself. 

“You said you needed to talk to me”, Aela said, all traces of humour gone now, and sat down on the bed. 

Wulf nodded and without preamble he blurted out “We have a problem.” 

“It's about Farkas, isn't it?”, Aela asked, burying her face in her hands.  

“Yes”, her shield-brother confirmed, quickly resuming. “This involves the whole Circle, but I thought I'd tell you first.” 

“Wulf –”, Aela's voice wavered now “If something happened to him...”  She didn't finish.  She didn't have to. 

“Yes.  No.  Let me explain.  Farkas is alive”, Wulf began and saw Aela slump in relief. 

It was short-lived, because after his next sentence she was as pale as the sheets she sat upon. 

“He's a prisoner of the Silver Hand.” 

 

xxxx

 

Vilkas took the stairs to the living quarters two at a time, already impatient to get back to Wulf and press some answers from the man.  Ria and Athis cast curious glances towards the Companion when they saw him hurry through the main room, but neither the Imperial woman nor the Dunmer approached him with questions.  He had effectively scared off his fellow Companions with his foul mood of the days past.  Vilkas felt a slight pang of guilt that he quickly repressed.  He knew that he owed his shield-siblings an apology, but there would be a time for reconciliation when his world wasn't turned upside-down. 

Tilma answered the door with a smile and warm words “Hullo, dear.  Come in.” 

Vilkas guessed he would always be ‘dear’ to the old woman who had half-raised him.  He snorted at the endearment.  There were worse, as he had found out over the past months. 

The old woman had probably recognised his pattern of knocking, the Companion thought and stepped into the room.  Looking over the furniture and decorations that had not changed since he had been a boy, Vilkas cleared his throat and enquired loudly enough for the elderly lady to hear.  “I was wondering if you had something to eat ready.  A stew.” 

“Hungry, are you?”, Tilma chuckled.  “I remember a time when all you and your brother did was eat.” 

Vilkas inclined his head, not wanting to be rude, but neither was he in a mood for idle chatter or recounting of times past.  “It's not for me”, he clarified briefly “It's for Wulf.” 

“Ah!  Your friend is awake, then.”  Tilma nodded her head without waiting for an answer and began to bustle around, talking to either herself or the Companion. 

Vilkas waited impatiently until she was done, tapping his foot and quenching a heavy sigh every time the old woman walked past him until she was finally done and pointed the warrior to a fireplace in the back.  

“I have just made a cauldron of barley broth that I wanted to serve with dinner”, Tilma said, waving her hand at a huge kettle that hung above the fire.  “Take it upstairs for me, would you?  Your friend can have some straight away.” 

You could always rely on the old woman to have food ready. 

Vilkas could not suppress a small smile.  “Thank you, Tilma.”

Tilma skittered around the Companion as he carried the cauldron through the room.  “Be careful on those steps, dear.  The broth is really hot”, she warned him one last time, holding the door open for him. 

Vilkas grunted in response and only narrowly avoided a collision with Kodlak in the corridor. 

“Harbinger”, Vilkas courteously acknowledged Kodlak's presence. 

“Vilkas.  Good, I have been looking for you.”

“I'm...kind of...busy...right now”, Vilkas puffed between stairs as he lugged the full and quite heavy kettle upstairs and into the main room.  For all the respect he harboured for the old warrior, now was not the time he wanted to trade words. 

“Cooking?”, Kodlak asked him with a wink. 

The well meant jab escaped Vilkas' understanding of humour.  “Wulf's awake”, he answered curtly. 

“Is he now?”, Kodlak sighed.  The Harbinger sounded tired when he proclaimed that “This is good news indeed.  In fact, I've wanted to talk to you about him.” 

Why did everybody bother him _now_?  Vilkas' grunt was noncommittal, his thoughts on not spilling the hot food.  He reached the great dining table without incident and put down his burden with a loud thud, making the liquid slosh and some of it run down the brim.  Ria and Athis were gone, but he could hear the clash of weapons from outside.  When Vilkas poured soup in one bowl, another was held up for him to fill. 

“I doubt he'll answer any questions while eating”, Kodlak reasonably observed before Vilkas could say anything “And it won't take long.” 

“Fine!”, the Companion growled in frustration.  He had never refused his Harbinger before; he wasn't going to start now.  But he was close. 

“Something smells delicious.”  Aela's red head appeared next to Vilkas' shoulder.  The Huntress had sneaked upon the two men unnoticed and now she snatched both full bowls from her shield-brothers, grinned and innocently thanked them, then turned on the heel and marched back into Wulf's room which she had just come from.  Kodlak sighed heavily when he saw his dinner disappear and Vilkas went to retrieve another bowl. 

He kept Kodlak company during his meal, though he did not partake of it.  He was reprimanded for it quickly enough by the old man sitting across from him.  “You should eat.”

“I'm not hungry”, the Companion replied out of routine. 

Kodlak just shook his head.  “A warrior like you needs to keep up his strength.  ” 

“Yes, Harbinger.”  He wasn't twelve anymore, but judging by both the old Companion's and Tilma's way of treating him he might as well be.  He hadn't done anything strenuous the past days and his appetite was meagre.  The constant fretting about his twin and his friend's condition didn't help, either.  Vilkas cast a longing glance at the closed doors to Wulf's room, took a deep breath, let it out again and drummed his fingers on the table. 

“I see you have taken quite a liking to our newest member.”  If Kodlak wanted to be subtle, he had just failed miserably. 

Vilkas winced inwardly and shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.  The Harbinger was one of the few people he usually liked talking to, whom he could entrust with his thoughts and worries.  He knew that secrets were safe with the man who had all but raised him, but some things felt a little too personal for sharing. 

“I like him”, the Companion admitted grudgingly. “Which changes nothing about the fact that most of the time I want to hit him”, he resumed with a grimace, trying to sidetrack the conversation. 

Kodlak chuckled. 

“I understand how hard this has been for you.  I was there, in your spot, waiting for friends to wake up.  Some never did”, the old warrior told him, compassion evident in his voice alongside with what might have been regret. 

Vilkas knew that Kodlak had many of those; he wasn't the only one who needed to unburden his heart from time to time.  Today, it seemed the Harbinger had no desire to confide in him.  Instead his voice took on a tone that had Vilkas slumping in his seat.  Fighting had told him that he should always pose as small a target as possible, but it was too bad he couldn't make himself unseen entirely. 

“But you have to understand that as the future Harbinger your primary concern must always be the Companions as a whole, not just one of your comrades.  The warriors of Jorrvaskr have no leader”, at this point Kodlak snorted derisively and resumed “That's what we like to tell ourselves.  The whelps might still believe it, but I am older – and wiser – and I know better.  You have seen what the past days were like...total chaos.  Your shield-siblings rely on you, more than you realize.  Aela and Skjor help, but they cannot replace you!” 

“They are just upset because of Wulf”, Vilkas mumbled. 

Kodlak's eyes were drilling into the warrior's own.  “Are they?”, he asked in a low voice that was leaden with implications; his spoon had stopped mid-air.  “Or are they merely worried because you are?  The others will look to you for guidance, for support.  If you cannot give it to them, how are they supposed to follow you when it counts the most?” 

“I know that.  I...”, Vilkas swallowed before continuing “I think I needed a break.”  Gods, but he was tired of measuring up to other people's expectations. 

Kodlak was shaking his head before Vilkas had finished talking.  “You and I, we cannot afford such luxuries.”  He was right, of course.  The Harbinger himself worked hard, spending his days doing research instead of celebrating his achievements and enjoying the comforts of old age and a family that took care of him. 

“Let's take Lydia, for instance.” 

Vilkas managed not to groan – just.  “What about Lydia?”, he enquired with consternation, knowing that Kodlak was not done with him yet. 

“When was the last time you talked to her?” 

“I'm not sure.”  The Companion blinked.  Come to think of it, the housecarl had not visited him recently.  That certainly was strange, considering how often she had come by before Wulf had appeared on Jorrvaskr's doorstep more dead than alive.  “I haven't seen her in a while.” 

“And why do you think that is?”, Kodlak enquired.  

“I don't know.”  And honestly, Vilkas didn't care. 

Dissatisfied with the answer, the Harbinger refrained from showing his irritation.  Patiently, he continued eating and after a short while he enquired “You worry about your brother, right?”  Kodlak did not wait for Vilkas' answer and resumed immediately “Don't you think she worries about her Thane as well?  And it's not only Lydia's profession in danger here, but her honour.  Don't let others suffer through what you have to endure yourself.  You know how painful it is.” 

“I meant to tell her.”  Vilkas knew he was being defensive now.  Divines, but he hated to be lectured by the old man.  At least nobody else was here to overhear their conversation. 

“I kind of forgot.” 

Stating at the surface of the table spared him having to look up into his Harbingers piercing eyes. 

He heard Kodlak's sigh.  “If you want to know, an agreement has been struck between her, the Jarl and the Companions”, the Harbinger explained. 

“How do you know?”, Vilkas asked, more because he knew that he should than out of curiosity. 

“Because I was there to argue for the Companions' sake”, Kodlak answered and his next words made the young Companion wince.  “Lydia complained to Irileth who took the matter to the Jarl.  To sum up what had been a very long and heated discussion; there will be an official ceremony after which Lydia will begin her service as housecarl.  I will send a messenger to her to tell her to come by tomorrow morning.  It's only fair that she gets to know her Thane.” 

In the silence that followed Vilkas was all too conscious of the fact that all Kodlak had done was actually his job. 

“You _cannot_ allow yourself to let go like this.” 

“Yes, Harbinger.” 

He knew that.  He knew all that and yet all Vilkas wanted to do at times was to fall face first into his bed and not rise before the year was over.  But he kept going.  For the honour and good of the Companions and because he could not stand the thought of his Harbinger being disappointed in him. 

“Ah.  Don't worry about it now.  You are still young, Vilkas.”  Kodlak did not miss the look his fellow Companion was giving him and with more force he added “Yes, you are.  And it was not my intention to lecture you today.  Nobody expects you to become a leader overnight.”  The Harbinger's hand came to rest atop Vilkas' shoulder, giving the younger man a light shake.  “Don't let an old man's high expectations get to you, lad.  You know I am proud of you.  When I think back to when I was your age, I was lying around drunk in some hamlet in Hammerfell.” 

The two Companions shared a quiet laugh, even if Vilkas' own was a bit unsteady.  Strangely, he was feeling better now.  As always, Kodlak was right.  The warrior had not been himself lately.  He had needed a wake-up call, even though he hated to admit it.  It was time for him to pull himself together.  His brother was a capable warrior, one of Jorrvaskr's best and if his friend had woken up, it meant that he was out of the woods.  Speaking of which...

“You said something about Wulf, earlier?”, the Companion enquired after taking a steadying breath. 

“Ah, yes.  Now I almost forgot”, the old warrior admitted with an awkward cough that had Vilkas grinning broadly.  It made the harangue he had gotten earlier sting a great deal less. 

It did not take long for Kodlak to recover his composure.  “It seems that there is more to your friend than meets the eye”, he hinted mysteriously. 

Vilkas tilted his head to the side.  His Harbinger's words brought to mind the first time he had seen Wulfryk leaning against the doorway and listening in on their talk.  The distrust he had felt towards the brash stranger with a taunting smile and cold eyes who believed he could just walk in and join the Companions.  After half a year of working and living with the man he no longer harboured any such suspicions, but he remembered them well.  Skjor still did not trust their newest shield-brother, but Vilkas had had a change of heart after Wulf had saved his life, from a dragon no less, and had come close to losing his own in the process. 

And it had nothing to do with the fact that they had slept with each other, or so the Companion told himself. 

“What do you mean?”, he asked and tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation in his stomach, the doubts he felt rising once  more. 

Kodlak did not answer straight away.  He finished eating first, put down his spoon and pushed away the dishes, turning his full attention back to Vilkas.  “There is a reason behind his swift promotion to Thane”, he answered thoughtfully.  “Do you know why he was given this title?”, he next asked the younger Companion without further explaining. 

“Lydia said he had killed a dragon when the watchtower had been attacked.”  It was hard to believe, but Vilkas had seen Wulf face one of the giant lizards before.  He frowned, because Kodlak was still looking at him with expectation and he knew that he was missing something.  Something crucial, judging by the look. 

“Vilkas.”  The word was drawn out with amusement.  “My eyesight might be weak in my old age, but my ears are still excellent.  We all heard it.  You and me and the entire city.”

It was time for Vilkas to shake his head, because what Kodlak was hinting at was, simply said, impossible.  He could not, would not believe it. 

“The call of the Greybeards.” 

“No.  It can't be true.” 

Because admitting that it was would mean acknowledging that Wulf had played them all for fools.  Dragonborn.  Vilkas should have made the connection earlier, when Lydia had told him of the attack on the Western Watchtower.  Had it not been him arguing with his brother that only the fabled Dragonborn had the power to kill those damned lizards?  That evening in the Bannered Mare seemed like a lifetime ago, so much had happened in the meantime, but the Companion remembered that particular conversation as if it happened yesterday. 

“The Jarl believes it to be true”, the Harbinger resumed and Vilkas wondered whether the kindness in his voice might actually be pity. 

Directed at him, because there was nobody else here and because it had been him falling to pieces over Wulf's sickbed.  And it was too late to say that it was all because of his brother. 

“Your friend might be Dragonborn, but until the Greybeards confirm it this is a strict secret”, Kodlak added, almost as if in afterthought.  He did not speak again. 

“I understand.”  Although Vilkas did not, not really.  Why had Kodlak told him all this if he insisted that it was a secret?  Did that mean that his shield-siblings were to be kept in the dark?  Probably so. 

Was this just a piece of information important enough that the future Harbinger should know it or was it to keep him from falling for the man who always had a smile and a lie down pat? 

A bit late for that one. 

His Harbinger's words kept playing over and over in his mind, after their conversation had come to a rather abrupt end.  The two Companions sat in uncomfortable silence, each lost in his own thoughts until a shout made them both jump. 

“Kodlak, would you join us for a minute?”, Aela called from across the room.  “You too, Vilkas”, she added after a moment's thought. 

Vilkas rose mechanically and held out his hand to steady the old man when he got up.  It had become a habit and its very necessity showed how frail this once mighty warrior had become, how bad his shape really was.  It was a topic they all tiptoed around, one that even Vilkas' thoughts shied away from. 

He remembered Askar, had a few hazy memories of the former Harbinger and of the day all Companions had gathered beside the Skyforge and lit a huge bonfire.  A funeral pyre, though he learned only after the ceremony why on this day even battle-hardened warriors shed tears without shame.  Too young to be involved in Jorrvaskr's inner workings, their leader's demise had been no concern of the boy. 

The Companions without Kodlak though...Vilkas couldn't imagine how they would go on.  Somehow, they would.  And it would be him following in Kodlak's footsteps, a task that most of the time he could talk himself into believing that he was worthy of it. 

On days like today though, the Companion was plagued by doubts and they were not assuaged in the least when he entered Wulf's room, following Aela's call.  The Huntress looked nervous, wringing her hands.  Her red hair was a mess, as if she had run her hands through it many times without a care for the outcome. 

Wulfryk was now sitting in the spot that Vilkas himself had occupied in the days past and he looked up when the Companion entered. 

Something in his gaze made the warrior falter briefly in his stride. 

It was distant, guarded and calculating. 

It made Vilkas wonder whether that had ever changed or if it had just been him seeing the man in a different light, a friendly, warm glow of affection that could not persist in the harsh light of reality.  Because even after all this time that Wulf had spent with the Companions and in spite of all his wild stories they knew next to nothing about him.  He was a stranger. 

But come to think of it, so was Athis.  And Njada.  They had joined the Companions to make a new future for themselves, leaving their old lives behind.  Nobody had dug around in _their_ past. 

Vilkas turned back to the woman standing before him.  It was easier to face his shield-sister.  “You called?”, he asked. 

“Vilkas, you might want to sit down”, Aela answered, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. 

Fear pooled into Vilkas' stomach like lead, weighing him down.  Those words.  Wulf's expression.  They meant bad news.  “What's going on?”  His voice wavered more than he would have liked to admit. 

Hands pushed him down on the bed and the Companion's knees gave way.  “Sit.” 

“Aela.”  A breathless whisper, because all air was gone from Vilkas' lungs.  He was begging her with his eyes.  Imploring her not to say what he knew was coming, what he dreaded every time he took leave from his brother.  The room was too small suddenly, too stifling, too hot.  And yet he felt cold, had to clench his jaw to prevent his teeth from chattering. 

The tang of dismay hung in the air, so thick it left a bitter taste on his tongue.  It made him want to throw up. 

Aela wanted to reach out towards her shield-brother, but knowing him he would not suffer the placating touch.  So she clenched her fists and spreading her arms she burst out “We need to rescue Farkas.”  She looked over at Wulf, but he had his face buried in his hand and was busy massaging his eyes. 

“Rescue him?”  The words rang in the silence of the room.  Outside, a thrush had begun to sing.  Vilkas thought it was strange that he should be more aware of its chirping than he was of his closest surroundings.  At least rescue meant that Farkas was alive.  He was alive.  The world stopped spinning. 

“Who?”  Now that the fear was abating, anger began to build up. 

“Who took my brother!?”, Vilkas growled, staring at both his shield-siblings, both of whom would not meet his eyes. 

“The Silver Hand.”  Aela's words were like a slap to the face, sending his last shreds of hopes crashing right back to the ground. 

“The Silver Hand does not take prisoners.” 

“They did this time.”  Wulf had apparently decided to join the conversation and though he now steadily held his fellow Companion's gaze, both his face and tone lacked emotions. 

Something about his calm, uncaring manner snapped Vilkas out of his shocked state.  As if it wasn't his closest friend who was held prisoner, but some foreign person. 

“You!”, the Companion snarled.  “How could you let this happen!?”  By the time he finished, he was shouting. 

“I tried to free him”, Wulf replied, still perfectly composed.  “It did not go well for me, but Farkas is fine.” 

“FINE!?  DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THEY WILL DO TO HIM!?”  Somebody was holding him back, keeping him from going after the whelp. 

Wulf should be glad that Aela and Kodlak were here to keep him back, because Vilkas had every intention of ripping the whelp apart for deserting a shield-brother, his twin.  The other Nord made no move to defend himself, much like on the first day they had met, when Vilkas had cornered him in the corridor. 

“Yes.”  There was a distinct malicious undertone to the single word to accompany the spark of fury in Wulf's eyes.  “If ‘The Skinner’ is a clue.” 

And here Vilkas had thought his shield-siblings wanted to protect Wulf from him.  It had not occurred to the Companion that it might be the other way around.  That he would be the one who needed their support. 

The strength of anger had left him as quickly as it had come.  “Please tell me he doesn't have my brother.” 

“Not yet.”  Now that he was no longer being attacked Wulf settled for a sullen grumble.  “That's why we need to save him.  And it's ‘she’, by the way.  Krev's a woman.” 

The Companion let himself sink back onto the bed, rubbing his temples rather forcefully.  He felt like he'd been put through the meat grinder. 

“Where -?”, Vilkas swallowed, coughed and began again “Where do we even begin?” 

“I know where they are headed”, Wulf answered.  “A castle in the Eastmarch.  Gallow's Rock, if that's any help.  That's where they're taking Farkas.  And unless their horse grew wings they' won't get there anytime soon.” 

“Which gives us time to come up with a plan”, Aela spoke up once more. 

“How much time do we have exactly before they reach Gallow's Rock?”, Vilkas enquired looking around.  “Wulf?”   

“Considering that you have to get there as well?  Four days, maybe.”  It was a generous assessment. 

The Companion nodded.  He was staring at the floor between his feet.  It was dirty.  He could feet the gazes of the people in the room, waiting for him to do or say something.  This was what Kodlak had been talking about, was it not?  He had to pull himself together.  For his brother's sake he had to remain strong and lead the Companions. 

Vilkas looked up and met the Harbinger's eyes.  Kodlak nodded his head, the tiniest fraction of a movement, but it was enough to let him know that he was not alone in this.  They would talk again, soon. 

“Aela, is Skjor here?”  Vilkas asked with an effort to keep his voice level. 

“Yes, he is downstairs, sleeping.”  There was the slightest note of irritation in the Huntresses voice.  Skjor had been working hard with Farkas gone and Vilkas refusing to leave Wulf's bedside.  Her lover was weary and he needed his much deserved rest. 

“Wake him up, please”, Vilkas ordered.  “I want him to be present when we discuss our tactics.”  They would need Skjor if they were to attack the headquarters of the Silver Hand.  “We will meet here in an hour.  I suggest you pack, Aela.”  With those words he got up. 

“Now if you'll excuse me for a moment...”, the warrior said and left the room. 

Kodlak, who had not uttered a single word since entering looked like he had aged a decade in the past five minutes.  He followed Vilkas out of the room, silently closing the door behind him. 

“I'm glad that's over”, Aela sighed heavily and sunk down on Wulf's bed.  She looked as exhausted as Wulf was feeling. 

Wulfryk grimaced in agreement.  “He took it rather well, don't you think?” 

“Better than I thought he would”, the Huntress replied thoughtfully. 

They sat in silence and without moving until Wulf leaned sideways, lifted his bowl from the floor and held it out to his friend.  “Get me some more broth?” 

 

xxxx

 

An hour later Vilkas' sword had a new edge. 

The Companion was packed and ready by the time he returned to Wulf's – Brill's – room that was.  Wulfryk was lying in bed once more; he had fallen asleep while Kodlak sat in the corner and Aela was busy fletching arrows.  There was a backpack lying at her feet. 

Skjor entered several minutes later and the first thing he did before he took a seat as well was to lean his pack against the wall. 

As much as Kodlak surely wanted to join them, he was not physically able to fight anymore.  Besides, they would need somebody to remain in Jorrvaskr and keep the place running and the whelps busy.  Wulf was still too weak and that left Vilkas, Skjor and Aela.  Three warriors to take on the entire Silver Hand.  It was too darned close to suicide for his liking. 

If he had to though, Vilkas would have tried to take them down by himself.  He was very glad that he did not have to resort to such desperate measures.  That he had his shield-siblings at his back. 

They might argue a lot in their free time and fight amongst each other, but when one member of the family was threatened, the warriors of Jorrvaskr acted in unison and without hesitation.  It gave Vilkas hope to see his shield-siblings ready and eager to rescue his brother.  Only together did they stand a chance against the enemy. 

They needed a plan and a good one if they wanted to survive this one mission. 

And if any of the Silver Hand bastards laid a finger on his twin, Vilkas would repay them a thousandfold for it. 

He only wished it would never come this far. 

The idleness was getting to the Companion, the knowledge that with every minute his brother was brought closer to the headquarters of the enemy.  Without proper preparation though, their chances of success were slim. 

Aela gently shook Wulf awake once they were complete and he recounted everything that would help them in their mission, concentrating on the number of warriors, their route and destination.  He deliberately skipped most of what had happened in Dustman's Cairn, Vilkas noticed but let it go, as it would not be of any help to them anyway. 

When his friend was done, a heavy silence descended over their small gathering.  It did not last long, though, because an enraged Skjor broke it, saying “You failed to protect your shield-brother?” 

An accusation, not a question. 

“Oh, I'm very sorry”, Wulf snapped back.  “That I did not die pointlessly in a hopeless fight where I was outnumbered twenty to one.”  The venom in his voice actually made everybody close to him lean back.  “I'm sorry I did not take the secret of Farkas' whereabouts to the grave and instead decided to return to his friends who actually have a chance to get him out alive.” 

Skjor looked somewhat taken aback, but the spiteful reply did not deter him from glowering darkly at the other Nord.  If he wanted to argue, he had certainly come to the right man. 

“Wait”, Aela interrupted before a fight could break out.  She turned to Wulf who was currently holding a staring contest with Skjor.  “You said there were eleven warriors with Farkas, not twenty.” 

Wulf's smile could have been friendly had his eyes not held all the warmth of a mountain glacier.  “Who do you think got rid of the other half?”, he enquired conversationally.  

“What about the piece of Wuuthrad?”, Skjor retorted heatedly, ignoring Aela's attempts at making peace.  “It was your trial to retrieve it.  Do you have it?” 

Vilkas shared a look of surprise with the Huntress that let the Companion know that he was not the only one who had forgotten about Ysgramor's axe. 

However, Wulf seemed to have expected that particular question, because he was quick to reply “There was never any piece there.” 

“What do you mean it wasn't there?” 

“I mean”, the Nord explained, “That Dustman's Cairn was a setup.  A trap.  That helpful scholar who told you about it was either an agent or a pawn of the Silver Hand.  You should check your sources more carefully, next time.” 

He was onto something there, Vilkas had to admit, though he did not say so.  The Silver Hand had grown bold to pull off such a ruse.  They would have to teach them to fear the Companions. 

That the warriors of Jorrvaskr would not be trifled with. 

“So what are we going to do?”  Aela had taken over the role of the voice of reason in this meeting. 

“It's best we surprise them on the road.”  Wulf handed his friend a map that Vilkas recognised to be Kodlak's.  “I've drawn in Gallow's Rock, as you asked me.  The dotted line is the one the Silver Hand intends to follow from what I've overheard.” 

Vilkas found that he was nodding along when suddenly he realized what the other man had just said. _We?_ Indeed, there was a small pack lying next to the bed that he had overlooked earlier. 

‘Oh no, he wasn't’, Vilkas thought.  The three other Companions had bent over the map and did not pay him any heed while they were animatedly discussing the lay of the land. 

“I just thought about something.  Wulf, could we talk for one minute?”, Vilkas asked and inclined his head towards the door. 

The look he received contained a mixture of curiosity and distrust, but Wulfryk got up slowly, and with more difficulty than even the old Harbinger, and followed the Companion. 

They were out of the room and hopefully out of hearing as well when Vilkas rounded on Wulf, who had leaned against the wall.  “What in Oblivion do you think you are doing!?”, he hissed.

Wulf's answer was to cross his arms in a look of stubborn defiance.  “I have a few days until we catch up to the Silver Hand”, he said.  “I'll drown myself in potions underway, if I have to.” 

The Companion snorted in disbelief.  “You can't fight!”, he half-laughed, half-shouted.  “Look at yourself, you can barely walk!” 

“I've spent four days with an arrow stuck in my guts, Vilkas  I didn't eat, I barely drank.  I'd been puking blood by the second day and I still tracked down your brother and dragged my arse back to Whiterun.”  Wulf's voice dropped to almost a whisper and the Companion knew that he was livid when he said “Don’t you presume to tell me what I can and can’t do.”

‘Damn his pride’, Vilkas thought.  But then it was said to be a trait of the Nords.  This time though he knew he was doing the right thing.  He knew how Aela and Skjor fought and he could not take somebody with them who was not a member of the Circle.  It was as simple as that.  He could not allow Wulf to join them, not because he did not believe him to be capable enough, but because he had to protect the Companions. 

“Wulfryk, you're not coming with us”, he commanded. 

The warrior snorted, he had never been one to give up easily.  “How many people do you have with you who know restoration magic if one of you gets hurt?”, he asked.  “Who can distract the Silver Hand with some fire and explosions?  Who can jiggle a closed lock, hm?” 

All of them were reasonable questions.  Also, they did not matter one bit, because Vilkas could not take the other man with him.  _It wasn't his bloody choice!_

“Yes, you are many things.  I know that.”  He sounded bitter, he knew.  And gods, was he tired of arguing; it sapped his strength more than any armed conflict.  “I wonder what else you can do.  Who are you, Wulf?” 

“What are you talking about?”  The Nord's eyes narrowed in suspicion and he struggled to stand a little straighter. 

“Your little secret.”  Did Vilkas have to spell it out for him?  “I'll give you a hint”, he bit out instead, feeling the anger boil up, the sting of betrayal.  “It has something to do with you being Dragonborn.  Why are you even here?” 

“Secret?”  The outrage in the other man's voice was evident.  “You're one to talk about secrets, you bloody hypocrite!”, he shouted.  “I know what your brother is!  What you are!  I know why the Silver Hand hunts you, _Companion_!”  Wulf spat the last word like a curse. 

Vilkas had expected a struggle, even a verbal sparring, but this left him standing rooted to the ground, speechless.  He was shaking, in fury or shock, he could not tell himself which. 

The ugly truth that was the Companions' most closely guarded secret hung between the two men.  _He knew._   Wulf knew. 

“Vilkas!”, came a cry from the other room.  The others must have finished arguing over the map. 

The Companion jerked back into alertness.  “We will talk later”, he stated curtly and turned away. 

Wulf's only answer was a mocking sneer, but he did not follow the Companion back into the room. 

“What was that about?”, Aela asked as soon as her shield-brother had taken a seat.  He looked rather pale.  She did not miss that he was alone, either. 

“He knows”, came the rasped reply.  “Wulfryk knows about the beastblood.”

Time seemed to stop for a while after this proclamation as all eyes were glued to Vilkas.  And then everybody began to talk at once. 

“He failed”, Vilkas heard Skjor say as an answer to something Aela had told him.  “He is not one of us.” 

“This changes things”, Kodlak muttered, shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes. 

“We have but two options.  Turn him or – ”  The Huntress never finished the sentence. 

Skjor interrupted her, stabbing his finger in the direction of the door “He is no Companion!” 

Vilkas was sick of quarrels, he had had his measure for the day.  “Can we discuss this after my brother is back in Jorrvaskr?”, he roared above the general uproar, slapping the table to get the attention of the others. 

“We need to decide what to do about the whelp now”, Skjor insisted with stubborn resolve. 

“We cannot allow him to spread the news”, Aela agreed, nodding her assent.  “I say we vote now.  Vilkas?” 

“Farkas is being carted off to Krev as we speak!”, the Companion in question bellowed.  “Do you think I give a shit about votes!?” 

It was Kodlak, bless his heart, who found a temporary solution and put an end to the argument.  “What of this”, the old warrior suggested “Wulfryk will remain here, in Jorrvaskr for now, where I can keep an eye on him.  He is not a Companion and he will not accompany you.  Once you are back, the full Circle will vote.” 

There was some grumbling, but it died down quickly.  There was something infinitely calming about the Harbinger and his unshakable composure.  “And now we should concentrate upon rescuing our shield-brother”, the old warrior resumed.  “Vilkas, do you have a plan?” 

Vilkas took a deep breath to clear his mind and find his bearings.  “Wulf was right when he suggested that we should attack them on the road”, he began thoughtfully.  “Strike before they reach Gallows Rock.”  He looked up to see everybody nod and continued more confidently “Aela, I want you to shoot as many of them as you can.  Skjor, you will turn and wreak chaos.  Once the fighting gets thick, Aela can join you.  Engage if you have to, but under any circumstances keep them bastards on the move.  Keep them busy.”  Vilkas saw the Huntress and Skjor share a grin.  He knew their fighting styles and how they complemented each other.  He wouldn't have to tell them anything else. 

“I will try to get Farkas out”, he carried on after a brief pause.  “We cannot allow the Silver Hand to take him hostage during the fight.” 

Or kill him.  But that went without saying. 

“Remember, distraction is more important than outright slaughter.”  Vilkas looked at his fellow warriors.  “You have studied the map.  Did you come up with a suitable location for an ambush?” 

“Aye”, Skjor replied and drew a small dot on the map.  “The woods are dense in these hills.  Aela and I have hunted here before.  Those Silver Hand bastards will be dead before they know what hit them and Farkas will be safe.  You can count on us, Vilkas.” 

 

xxxx

 

Wulf was seething.  He was sitting outside, in the courtyard, and the cold air did little to cool him down. 

Kodlak had visited him a short time ago and when the Harbinger had begun their talk with ‘I'm sorry to tell you lad’, he'd known he wouldn't like what was coming. 

It appeared killing a dragon and nearly dying for your lycanthropic friend in some bloody barrow whilst fighting off the enemy was not enough to be accepted into the Companions.  It made Wulf wonder what miraculous deeds of heroism the other whelps had performed. 

It also made him want to pay a visit to Belethor, buy a galleon of paint from the surly merchant and write ‘THE COMPANIONS ARE WEREWOLVES’ on Jorrvaskr's front wall in bold letters.  Petty dreams of a revenge that he would not follow through with, but one could dream. 

Worst of all had been Aela's reaction when he had tried to press some answers out of her.  He had thought they were friends, but apparently he had been wrong.  He was not one of them, no Companion, and they would not accept his help in freeing Farkas, even after it had been Wulf who made the rescue possible in first place.  Did he get any gratitude?  No, he did not.  All he got was a reminder to behave. 

“And don't think about following us”, the Huntress had told him, grim-faced.  “Vilkas has made sure you're not getting your horse from the stable master until we are back.” 

Vilkas had grunted in affirmation levelled a dark look at him in warning.  Wulf had retailed with a rude gesture.  There wasn't much else he could do, except thinking up a half-assed plan to steal another horse.  If death by hanging had been a sufficient scare-off, he wouldn't have a horse in first place.  He only doubted that he would make it as far as the stables without keeling over. 

So he had limped outside – by now his side had begun to burn again – picked up a sword at random and cloven a practice dummy in half, regretting only that it was not alive so he could watch it scream and writhe in agony.  The action had pulled at his stitches painfully and Wulf had sunk into the first chair he reached.  He had yet to get up.  It gave him plenty of time with nothing to do, but twirl the blade between his hands and bemoan the loss of his own Skyforge Steel sword. 

A snort behind him had made Wulf look up and turn his head. 

“What are you doing with that blade, using it as a crutch?”, Skjor joked. 

That's exactly what Wulf had done, but the comment stung nonetheless. 

“Actually I'm thinking of shoving it up a place on you I'm sure Aela never found!”, he shot back over his shoulder. 

Instead of letting himself be drawn into another quarrel, Skjor came closer and took a seat himself, stretching out his legs comfortably.  “How did you kill all those Silver Hand warriors by yourself?”, he asked with what appeared to be honest curiosity. 

“One after the other.”  Wulf did not need to mention that he had let others do most of the work for him. 

“Ten against one”, Skjor mused.  “Those are some long odds.”  After a while he added “You must have known by then.” 

“About you being werewolves?”  Wulf wasn't sure where this conversation was leading, but he was willing to keep it up for now.  “Yes, I knew”, he confirmed.  “It did not stop me from trying to save Farkas, I fail to see why it is such a big deal now.” 

“Because we have to protect our own”, the elder warrior replied. 

“By keeping me away?  That doesn't make any sense, Skjor”, Wulf pointed out.  “You'd be better to keep a close eye on me, no?”

The Companion nodded and replied “That's why Kodlak wants to keep you here.” 

“And what do you want?”  Honestly, Wulf was growing tired of their talk. 

It seemed Skjor had been waiting for this very question, because he leaned forward now, resting his elbows on his thighs.  “I want you to come with us”, he said. 

It wasn't the answer Wulf had expected.  “Why?  You argued against my joining.” 

“That I did.  I won't say I'm sorry; I have my reasons.  But a warrior who can take on the Silver Hand ten on one and live through it?  It would be a waste not to have you with us.”  His next question caught Wulf by surprise.  “Tell me: do you trust me?” 

“As far as I can toss you”, Wulf chuckled.  “Which isn't very far in my current state.” 

“Good.”  For some reason Skjor seemed to be pleased with his answer.  “Aela and I have been thinking-” 

“Congratulations.” 

There was a flicker of annoyance that disappeared as quickly as it had come.  “She is sorry, you know?” 

He didn't.  “So why are _you_ telling me this?”, Wulf enquired. 

“Because Vilkas is watching her.  She can't come.”

There was nothing Wulf could say really, and so he waited for Skjor to resume. 

When he did, the warrior seemed angry.  “The Companions, you see, we have gone for the dogs.  Ria?  Torvar?  They're bloody pups compared to the warriors who used to live in Jorrvaskr.  Kodlak, now I love and respect the Harbinger and I won't utter a single bad word about him, but he has denied us the glory that we could rise towards.” 

A lot of words that made little sense, as far as Wulf was concerned.  “Do you want me to join now or not?”, he enquired of the other man.  “Make up your bloody mind.  I'm confused”. 

“Join?”, Skjor grunted derisively.  “No, I do not want you to join.  I want to bind you to the Companions.  Make you one of us.” 

 _One of them?  What was that supposed to mean._   Wulf had a distinctively bad feeling about this.  Whatever _this_ actually was.  “Why do I get the feeling that Vilkas and Kodlak would disapprove and that you're planning something without their consent?” 

“Curious?”  The laughter was evident in Skjor's voice, but when the Companion got up, the only thing he said was “Meet Aela and me in the Underforge tonight.  We'll explain.” 

And with those words he left Wulf to his thoughts.  The Nord gave his sword another twirl and listened to the metallic scrape of the tip dancing across the stone floor.  He had been awake only a few hours, but he nonetheless should go inside and get some more rest since it looked like he had a nightly appointment. 


	22. BTS

Wulf spent the remainder of the day asleep.  He staggered out of bed in the evening and promptly decided that it was high time for a bath.  Threatening to blow a hole in Jorrvaskr's wall and fully intending to follow through with it quickly got the Companions moving to fulfil his wish.  They would probably toss his arse out if he did, but since they were intending to do so anyway, he guessed there was nothing to lose.  Though why they tolerated his behaviour was beyond him.  Oh, well.  He fully intended to enjoy the service for as long as it lasted. 

He wasn't making himself popular, Wulfryk knew but watching the others tow in the tub and water gave him a dark kind of satisfaction. 

The water was hot and he sank into it slowly, groaning in pleasure.  It had been too long since he'd had a proper bath; jumping into an icy stream with Farkas did not count as such – and even that had been a week ago.  Wulf made good use of the soap and washrag that had been left for him and watched as the water turned murky, rivulets of brown running from his hair when he scrubbed at it with vigour. 

Being filthy from either sweat, the dust of the road or from fighting as well as living without such comforts like a proper bathtub was the price one had to pay for being a warrior and a wandering sellsword.  Wulf was used to the discomforts of the road, he didn't mind them most of the time, which did not mean that he did not enjoy being clean every once in a while. 

He stepped out of the water once it began to cool off and towelled himself dry with the clothes he had been sleeping in, tossing them in the corner without a care once he was done. 

His movements were a lot more careful when he dressed himself, all the while trying not to aggravate his shoulder.  Wulf's fingers felt clumsy with disuse, but at least the hot water had done its job and drawn the soreness out of his stiff muscles. 

The Nord stretched a bit, glad to be free of pain, if only temporarily and testing out his range of movement.  It was better than he had expected, but even so he felt an uncomfortable pull from the stitches across his left side.  Not wanting to tear them or the surrounding skin, Wulfryk gave up on his meagre exercise. 

Overall he felt fine, but those were probably the after-effects of all the healing he had received on top of a whole day's worth of sleep.  That he actually needed the last truly showed that his shape was not good at all. 

Soaking in a tub and standing in the middle of the bedroom were both fine, as long as he did not have to walk and when  he finally did, the room tilted precariously, almost as if the tiles had come to life underneath his feet.  Wulf steadied himself against the wall and did so with the wrong hand, which had him scrunching his eyes closed and cursing vividly. 

He could have blamed the spell of dizziness on the hot water, but the warrior knew better than to do so. 

It passed quickly and he was able to continue, his step a slow shuffle more fit for an old man than a fighter in his prime. 

Wulf had both overestimated his abilities and underestimated those of his enemies in their last encounter.  A stupid novice mistake that he could not afford not to repeat and a risk that he never would have taken had his friend not been in grave danger.  It had almost cost him his life.  Next time, he knew, there would be no ‘almost’. 

The Nord had learned early to assess his skills in a critical way.  Misjudgements of one's capabilities did not happen often in his profession.  Usually only once. 

The only and the biggest problem was that the right decision was not a path easily found.  If you were already hip-deep in trouble you still had to find your way out of it, be it through violence or a nimble mind.

Everything he knew, Wulf had learned by actually _doing_ it.  The experience was hard-won and often came with a price.  It was a dangerous way of life and few would-be hunters of fortune lived to tell about their adventures.  For many others that road ended in either a dark prison cell, the pits or an early grave.  Wulf had been lucky enough to be one of the survivors, but he was happy to see the days when he had blundered his way through his battles long gone.  One learned quickly when there was no alternative. 

Knowing all this, he still liked taking risks, dumb little ones that often led to brawls or had him leaving a city in a hurry – and usually in the middle of the night.  However, he had tried to avoid the bigger ones, such as those that seemed to hound him now.  It seemed though as if life wanted to make it up to him by tossing everything it held in stock at him now.  The battle with the Imperials that led to his capture, Helgen, Bleak Falls Barrow, the incident on the plains, the Western Watchtower and now Dustman's Cairn.  Those incidents had been too damned close and too many.  Divines, he had faced more dangers during his short time in Skyrim than he had in several years as a caravan guard. 

He wouldn't even be in trouble so very often if he would only manage to keep his gab shut in picky situations.  But if your favourite pastime happened to be provoking people that was easier said than done. 

Wulf guessed nobody could be perfect and he was darn pretty close anyway. 

He was also ravenous.  He'd had two helpings of soup before noon, but now his stomach was growling, driving his mind to conjure up images of delicious food.  Food that could be found in the living room and so he set out to pilfer it for edibles.  Wulfryk thought he had heard somebody mention cake before and wondered if there was any left. 

He found out that indeed, there was and after a meal scraped together from dinner's leftovers he took the last two pieces for himself.  It would have been a pleasantly solitary evening since there was nobody else around.  It was a rarity to find the mead hall thus deserted and of course Wulf had both the proper timing and good luck to run straight into Vilkas on his way out. 

The two men glared at each other, each from his side of the doorway.  One would have to step aside to let the other pass.  Wulfryk had no intention of being that somebody.  If this wasn't bloody awkward, Wulf did not know what was.  “Oh, Vilkas”, he exclaimed in real surprise, but with feigned pleasantness.  “I was looking for somebody to tell them they can clean up my room now.” 

Vilkas looked away briefly and pressed out “You can clean up after yourself.”

Wulf shook his head in negation, though he did not extend much energy into keeping up his shoddy facade of fake regret.  “No, I'm afraid I'm still too physically impaired to do that.  _I can barely walk_ , you see?”, he tossed back at the big warrior, more concentrated on licking the sticky cherry syrup off his fingers than on their brief exchange. 

Studying the Companion's face yielded the most interesting expressions.  The two dark red splotches that coloured his cheeks could be anger – in that case Wulf hoped Vilkas wouldn't burst something from the astounding restraint he showed, or arousal.  Now there was an amusing thought. 

It would be fun to see how far he could push the Companion before he completely lost it but not today, on the eve of Farkas' rescue mission. 

“Look, Wulf –”, Vilkas began, sounding exasperated, tired and very much like he was forcing himself to remain calm in order to explain something. 

Wulf slammed the door shut between them, turned around and fled back to his room.  He was acting more like a petulant child than a reasonable adult and being a complete and utter arse too boot and he was not even ashamed to admit it.  But what sympathy he'd harboured for the Companion had evaporated somewhere around noon today.  He had no interest in listening to excuses.  Farkas was the one who truly deserved his compassion, not his idiot of a brother. 

Even if it wasn't Vilkas' fault that the rest of the Circle did not want to have him around, but he was here and a convenient outlet for Wulf's anger, a lot of it which stemmed from being hurt.  Both in his pride and feelings.  And since he could not vent any of it on the real culprits, the Silver Hand, he'd settle for petty acts of revenge against those who would keep him locked up in Jorrvaskr. 

The Nord opened the wooden shutters to let in some cold, fresh air.  It helped to take the edge off the bitter resentment that he harboured, mostly against himself.  Because some fuckwit twat of a Silver Hand thug had actually managed to keep him from rescuing Farkas.  It wouldn't have cost Wulfryk much to send a second fireball after him and that would have been that.  He would never have been injured, Farkas would be home and Wulf wouldn't be losing the comforts of having a home and a relatively secure, well-paid work. 

Wulf ripped his gaze away from the darkening sky.  Glaring at the heavens had never done him much good.  The sun had begun to set and twilight enveloped Whiterun, creeping in slowly like a forbidden lover.  A mist arose in the streets and Wulf could see his own breath come in little white clouds.  He would have to meet with Aela and Skjor soon which was another thing that he wasn’t looking forward to.  At least it would distract him from Vilkas.  He nudged the door open and felt relief when the big warrior was nowhere in sight.  It was almost eerie to behold Jorrvaskr's corridors deserted like this, although he heard voices whispering in the whelp's dormitory when he snuck downstairs. 

Wulf sweet talked a frowning Tilma into borrowing him some of her sewing things and used them to add a hidden pocket to his shirtsleeve that could hold a knife.  He made sure the weapon was both easily accessible and not visible once he had his coat on.  The cold metal slowly warmed against his wrist. 

Better to be prepared than to be sorry. 

He did not know what awaited him in the Underforge, but Wulf doubted it was anything pleasant.  Skjor might laugh it off, but there was no better way to tell that something fishy was afoot than a secret meeting in the middle of the night. 

Then there were those things Skjor had hinted at; about binding him to the Companions and about Aela acting up so Vilkas would not get suspicious of her.  They could be real or invented and he very much wanted things to make sense again.  Wulf chuckled humourlessly at the irony that he now sought an explanation whereas he had run from another one before. 

It was still a bit early for their meeting when he left Jorrvaskr with a wooden practice sword that in the absence of a real walking stick had to double as such.  Wulf just wanted to make sure that he was the first one to arrive at the location so he could scout its perimeter, the way he had learned to. 

To make sure he had an escape, really, but he decided not to dwell on such gloomy thoughts just yet.  Not before he knew what truly was going on. 

The Underforge was a cave beneath the Skyforge that turned into a tunnel which led outside the city's walls.  A convenient way of escape should Whiterun be besieged that was known only to the Companions.  Farkas had shown it to Wulf, grinning broadly throughout the tour and recounting the many battles against bandits and wild creatures that he and Vilkas had fought here as children. 

Wulf had seen how growing up here, in Jorrvaskr, must have been like a single giant adventure for the boys. 

Even now, when his friend was not here, the memory made him smile. 

The entrance to the Underforge was shuttered by a wooden door that was all but hidden behind a practice dummy, but that one particular stick man never saw much action.  Small wooden bolts kept the door wedged shut, but Farkas had explained that it was never closed.  After all, what was the use of having an emergency escape if could not be opened?

Wulf pried it open with ease and took some care to wedge the bolts back in after it was closed, a task that proved to be much more difficult and not just because of the near total darkness.  He had a torch with him, but did not want to light it just now lest he be seen.  At last the door was closed again and Wulfryk hoped that it would pass a cursory inspection.  He did not want Aela and Skjor to know that he was here.  It was surprising what one could learn by overhearing so-called private conversations. 

Only now did he conjure up a tiny spark, but it was all the oil soaked rag needed to catch fire.  Shadows sprung up and began to dance along the cave's rough walls and Wulf had to squint his eyes until he got used to the light.  The air was warmer in the cave than it was outside and it did not carry the bitter chill of winter, but it was not completely still either, a slight draft hinted at the opening that lay beyond. 

The faint tang of dampness and the stronger odours of earth and rock permeated the air.  Wulf walked the length of the tunnel and through the fissure in the rock that was the exit.  Above him stood the cliff on which Jorrvaskr had been raised and further up and above it he could make out small lights that must have belonged to the Jarl's palace.  The rest of Whiterun had disappeared in the white mist that lay over the countryside like a blanket. 

Wulf did not know what he expected to find here, if anything at all, but there was no sign of any disturbances around the cave's entrance.  Satisfied, he returned and put out his torch, settling in a nook where the shadows all but swallowed him.  He had made sure his hiding place was downwind first. 

Wulfryk had a lingering suspicion about a werewolf’s sense of smell and how Farkas had always managed to time his arrival with a hot meal being served. 

He drew his knees up and rested his chin atop them, tightening the cloak around himself.  Wulf allowed his thoughts to drift while he waited for the arrival of the two Companions.  They certainly took their time, but then there was the scrape of wood accompanied by hushed voices.  Aela and Skjor seemed to be engrossed in a discussion that stopped once they were both inside the cave and the door was once more shut behind them. 

“Wulf?”, Aela's question rang out suddenly. 

When it went unanswered, Skjor snorted and dropped his torch in the dirt, sitting down next to it.  “He is not here”, the Companion said, almost as if he was driving home a point. 

“He'll come”, came Aela's reply.  She sounded more hopeful than sure of himself.  “You did tell him – ”, she began after a while. 

Skjor sighed.  “I told him to meet us here tonight”, he reassured her. 

After a brief silence, Aela laughed out loud all of a sudden.  “Then he'll probably come right before dawn just to spite us.  I guess we will be here most of the night.”  She too plopped down on the ground, next to her lover. 

Wulf chuckled soundlessly in his hiding place.  After half a year Aela did know him rather well if she could predict that he intended for them to wait.  It wasn't purely out of spite though, more out of self-preservation. 

“It's a good night for hunting”, Skjor picked up their conversation where they had left off after a while. 

“Mmm”, Aela hummed in affirmation.  “We can't leave now.” 

“Just saying.” 

“We will hunt soon enough”, the Huntress assured her fellow Companion.  “I can't wait to get my hands on those bastards who took Farkas.” 

“We'll make them pay”, Skjor agreed readily. 

“I'm just worried because there are so few of us”, the Huntress confessed. 

“There's not many of them left, either”, Skjor replied. "We made sure of that last summer."

“There could be more by now”, Aela countered.

Without seeing it was difficult for Wulf to tell what they were doing, but he heard stones click together and something drag across the dirt floor.  It sounded as if one of the Companions was dragging a stick across the floor. 

“Gods, I hope Farkas is alright.”  Wulf thought that his friend sounded heartbroken.  “I just can't stop thinking...”, there was a slight pause as she drew an unsteady breath “What if they decide not to wait for Krev?  What if the three of us are not enough?” 

“That's why we are here, is it not?”  Skjor, it seemed, was in no mood to ponder what-ifs.  “Do you think he will embrace the gift?” 

Wulf had a distinct feeling that they weren't talking about Farkas anymore.  So that's why he was here.  Interesting. 

“I hope so.”  There was eagerness in Aela's voice and a sad note when she enquired “When you talked to him, was he very angry with me?”  She answered her own question before her fellow Companion had a chance to open his mouth.  “He was, right?  Bollocks!  After today I wonder if Wulf will even listen to us.” 

Skjor just harrumphed in answer.  None of them said anything else for a long while. 

“This is boring”, Aela complained after another long bout of silence and Wulf wondered how she managed to stalk her prey, if she couldn't hold still. 

There was the sound of shuffling and a soft wet smack – a kiss?  “There are ways to pass the time”, Skjor murmured, his voice low and seductive. 

Wulf had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.  A quick glimpse from behind a rock proved him right, the two had decided to make out right there.  One of Skjor's hands wandered under Aela's top and Wulf heard her moan.  Alright, he'd seen enough.  This was getting him nowhere.  The warrior whistled and had the satisfaction to watch the two Companions' panicked faces as they burst apart, Skjor's hand going to a sword that he was not wearing.  “Have you been there all along?”, the disgruntled man barked at Wulfryk who had decided to step out of the shadows. 

“Of course.” 

A faint hint of amusement tinged Wulf's voice.  Aela groaned and Skjor glowered at the other Nord, breathing heavily. 

“Don't mind me”, Wulf added cheerfully when nobody else said anything “I was invited after all, though I did not expect to get a show.  I do, however, expect an explanation for all this.”  He waved his hand to indicate the cave they were standing in. 

“We have a proposition for you”, Aela butted in, straightforward as ever, righting her shirt without any apparent self-consciousness.  “One we want you to consider carefully.” 

Wulf's brows shot up though in the darkness of the cave the gesture was probably lost on his comrades. 

“Let's hear it, then.”  He already had a pretty good idea of where this was going. 

If Aela heard him, she gave no sign, hurriedly resuming “And I want to apologize to you for what I've said earlier.”  She was chewing on her lip again, a sure sign of distress and yet she stood tall and met Wulf's eye.  It was not an apology, not quite.  She was not sorry for what they had done, but she regretted the way they had gone about it. 

Wulf took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “If you can't trust me by now, why should that change?”  Gods, he was one to talk about trust.  He could feel the knife in his sleeve press against his wrist.  “Why won't you let me help rescue Farkas?”  That was the real question, was it not?  He had already risked so much trying to free his friend, he felt that he had a right to join their mission. 

Aela did not waste any time with her answer.  “Because I have to protect the Companions, above all else.” 

 _From him?_   “I want to become one of the Companions”, Wulf argued, frustrated “Why would I want to do them any harm?”  They were talking in circles. 

“I don't know”, the Huntress admitted.  “Because tomorrow you decide you no longer want to be a Companion.  Because somebody blackmails you or because you're drunk and bragging, or you and Vilkas have another one of your little lover's spats.  I don't know!”, she shouted by the time she was done listing reasons.  “I don't care!  I just want us to be safe.  Jorrvaskr has been my home since I can remember.  I don't want my family put in jeopardy because one of your whims.  I'm sure you'd do the same to keep your family safe”, Aela finished, lowering her voice once more. 

“No.”  The single word hung in the air, cold and final. 

Wulf had not had a home since he was ten years old, let alone a family.  Unspoken went also that he didn't belong anywhere.  It did not bother Wulfryk, but he'd looked forward to becoming one of the Companions anyway.  It would be a nice change, to call a place ‘home’ for once. 

Still, he felt his anger abiding.  Aela's actions of protection were verging on paranoid but Wulf realized that the secret he knew could really destroy the Companions.  And he wasn't sure he'd have entrusted it to himself in their stead.  After years in Jorrvaskr, none of the other whelps were privy to it, after all.  If anybody held that kind of power over Wulf, he knew exactly what he would do that person.  It was not a pleasant thought. 

Skjor might look taken aback, but Aela ploughed onward.  She had known her friend long enough to be familiar with his defensive reactions.  Mentioning Wulf's family had been foolish, the warrior apparently had few fond memories of them because the topic always made him tense and irate.  It was good that the Huntress knew just the way to break through to him.  “If you accept out proposal, you'll be one of us, Wulf”, she began.  “Not just a Companion, but a member of the Circle.  Nobody will tell you what to do, not even Vilkas.  You'll be part of the pack and that's not something that can be taken from you.  We _are_ willing to trust you, but you have to meet us halfway.” 

Skjor might not agree to the ‘trust’ part, judging by the look he gave his lover, but he finished for her. “We want for you to share in the blood of the beast.”  He must have noticed Wulfryk's distinct lack of surprise, because when his words failed to draw a reaction from the other man, the Companion burst out “You knew.” 

“I suspected.” 

Skjor could have growled with annoyance.  This was not going as planned.  The whelp should have been unbalanced by their meeting; instead he had taken control from the beginning. 

“How?”, the warrior wanted to know. 

Wulf grinned, not entirely friendly.  “There aren't that many things you could share with me, Skjor.  Unless you named your bed.  Now, _that_ would have been a surprise, though not exactly a pleasant one.  Aela would love it though, I'm sure.”  His and Aela's eyes met and they both had to share a smile.  Their friendship was far from restored, but at least there was peace for now.  He only wondered how long it would last. 

“And if I do not accept this _gift_ of yours, what then?”  Wulf tilted his head to the side, as if confronted with an interesting puzzle.  “Are you going to kill me?”  His light-hearted tone was a sharp contrast to the sudden tension that suddenly suffused the small cave. 

“If you really thought we were going to harm you, you wouldn't be here”, Skjor stated, apparently convinced that he was right. 

‘Shows how much you know’, Wulf thought, but chose not to answer.  He preferred to face his enemies rather than to be stabbed in the back. 

“No, Wulf.”  It was Aela who answered.  She gave the impression of genuine hurt when she said “I'm sorry you would think this badly of us.” 

Wulfryk should have guessed that there was some code of honour that forbade the murder of future Companions, but then oaths and principles could be fickle things.  There had been no lie in Aela's eyes or voice, however and he felt himself relaxing marginally.  Wulf remembered having a similar worry once, when he had set out with Vilkas.  Maybe he was the jaundiced one, not the Companions. 

“We would have to make sure that nobody believed a word of what you are saying.”  Wulf narrowed his eyes at Skjor upon hearing those words and the Companion was glad that he had no idea about his status as Thane.  “Having your name disgraced would do the trick”, the warrior bluffed further. 

Right.  Wulf was willing to take back that last thought.  Disgraced?  “Like that self-pitying drunk Uthgerd?”, he asked, shaking his head. "I get that last part.  But what I don't understand is why you want me to join so very much.  I thought you didn't like me, Skjor”, he addressed the older Nord directly. 

“I don't like you”, Skjor muttered with grim conviction.  “But believe it or not, I can appreciate somebody for the warrior they are without bringing my feelings into it.  You are more than capable.  I can respect that.  And I want to see the Companions rise to greatness once more.  If you help us regain our former glory then I will call you shield-brother with pride.” 

“What do you think?”  Aela asked, sounding slightly nervous but masking it well. 

“I suppose that Skjor is actually less bigoted than I believed him to be”, Wulf replied sincerely.  The gruff words were unexpected and gave him a surprising insight into the other man.  To Skjor, the Companions were everything.  He now understood, at least in part, their actions.

That wasn't all, however. 

“I also think you two should stick to hunting and leave lies and conspiracies to those who are any good at it.” 

They had not expected him to see through their charade, Wulf knew, as soon as he beheld their stricken expressions.  Like children who had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.  He would spare them the embarrassment of asking how he knew. 

“Kodlak wanted me to join”, Wulf calmly said.  “Don't ask me why, but he walked right over the future Harbinger's protests to have me tried.  I doubt he'll change his mind now.  Vilkas might not like it, but he _will_ do whatever Kodlak tells him to.  And Farkas follows his brother without question.  Or did you already give up on him?” 

When he received no answer, Wulf carried on.  “That makes three Circle members out of five to vote in my favour.  And finally, what is it with all this sneaking around at night?”  He crossed his arms across his chest in a display of annoyance.  “You want to threaten me?  Fine, let's play it this way.  I'll leave.  And when I do, I'll go straight to Kodlak and Vilkas and tell them everything about this little get-together.  Who'll get the grief then, I wonder?”  

They knew that he was serious and not trying to deceive them.  Aela looked pale and Skjor's expression turned sour.  “I wonder”, he groused “Every time you make a fool out of yourself or trip over your own feet; is any of that genuine or is it merely an act?” 

“You can keep wondering”, Wulf retorted coolly.  He was not inspiring any trust now, that much was certain. 

“See?  I told you.”  Aela did not clarify what she had told Skjor, but judging by the Nord's unhappy expression it had something to do with their former argument, which he had apparently just lost. 

“So you want to turn me into a werewolf”, Wulf brought their attention back to himself. 

He was surprised how little the idea shocked him.  A week ago when he had seen Farkas' transformation he had debated whom he'd rather kill: the Silver Hand or his friend.  After he had found out that all the members of the Circle were afflicted with lycanthropy, it seemed like a minor detail in the face of Farkas' capture.  Living in several and travelling through all of Tamriel's countries with different people, cultures and sometimes even religious beliefs, had rendered Wulf open minded to almost anything.  He'd have to form his own opinion, not follow some superstition and he could accept that his perception of the ‘disease’ was distorted by society's fear of werewolves.  It was probably just the fear of the unknown, the same one that most Nords harboured towards magic.  Wulfryk had never met another werewolf save for his friends and in spite of their current differences they were all good people, he knew.  And none of them were any worse for it. 

“The beastblood has been granted to Ysgramor's Companions, to help them vanquish their foes”, Aela recited “Or so it is written in one of them diaries Kodlak now spends all his time pouring over.” 

“When I think about werewolves, the Vigilants of Stendarr come to my mind”, Wulf began slowly.  “How they say that werebeasts have been cursed, that they have no power over their transformations.  They turn into monsters who are slaves to their animal instincts, who in their state do not know from friend from foe and would kill anybody and anything.”  He knew that none of his friends behaved like that.  Farkas' turning had certainly been deliberate and no other Circle members lost control, otherwise they would not be able to keep their lycanthropy secret. 

“What makes you different?”, he enquired, curious. 

“We're not sure.”  At least Aela had decided to be honest with him now.  “Maybe there are varying types of lycanthropy.  Maybe it is the way we pass it on, forebear to descendant or maybe it has something to do with Terrfyg's pact with the Glenmoril Coven that began the lycanthropy.  But we are not like those poor sods you may have heard of”, she resumed.  “We are not mindless beasts, not are we victims of a ‘disease’.  We are not cursed.  We have been blessed, but sadly not all of our fellow shield-siblings see it this way.” 

“They may grouse about it and blame lycanthropy for all their problems”, Skjor threw in, sounding agitated “But the truth is that without the strength of the beast Kodlak would probably be long dead and Vilkas –”, he turned to Wulf at this point “Did Farkas tell you how sick he was as a child?” 

Wulfryk nodded and Skjor continued “Never mind that he wouldn't have made it into the Companions, we were not even sure he would live to adulthood.  And now he is cured and he only has the blood of the beast to thank for it!” 

“What about his sleeping problems?”, Wulf asked straight away. 

Skjor exhaled noisily.  “Vilkas has always suffered from them.  Used to be hopping around Jorrvaskr in the middle of the night when he was a pup.  It's this damned mind of his won't let him sleep, if you ask me.”  He was quick to dismiss the thought of being a werewolf causing his friend any distress. 

“And he never wasted a single thought on the afterlife until Kodlak began to rant about Sovngarde.” 

“Sovngarde?”  What did the Nord afterlife have to do with any of this?  Wulf hunkered down on the floor as well.  This could take a while.  “You've lost me now.  Why don't you start at the beginning?” 

So that's what Aela did, telling him about Terrfyg, the Harbinger who stroke a deal with the Witches of Glenmoril who promised the Companions a terrible power if the warriors hunted in the honour of the witches' lord, Hircine.  As it turned out, that power was the ability to turn into beasts stronger than mere wolves while keeping their human intelligence.  Ever since, members of the Circle had been lycanthropes.  There were many advantages, the increased strength and speed of an animal alongside with a keener sense of smell and hearing – even when in human form.  But there were downsides also, and Aela did not leave those out.  There was the need to hunt, to kill.  It was the main reason for her and Skjor's hunting trips at night. 

But werewolves were also banned from Sovngarde and upon death they would join Hircine to partake in the Great Hunt. 

By the time Aela had relayed all this, her voice was slightly hoarse and several hours must have passed. 

“So that's why Kodlak thinks about it as a curse”, Wulf mused when his friend had stopped talking. 

Skjor nodded.  “Yes.  I have known Kodlak for a very long time and he has changed in these past years.  Now that he feels his old age he is afraid.  Suddenly he remembered Sovngarde and that he is supposed to go there and it's been all he could think of ever since.  He never wasted a single thought on the afterlife when he was younger”, the Companion said with a melancholy expression. 

Wulf thought that Skjor must truly miss his old friend from whom he now was estranged. 

Skjor was not done yet, however.  “It's not enough that Kodlak now believes in the curse, he's also poisoned Vilkas' mind.”  He sounded bitter now Wulf knew that a lot of his anger was directed at their Harbinger.  “

Vilkas used to be a lot happier, when he was younger.  Now all he does is share in the old man's misery.  He even refuses to change and it's made him bloody irritable and withdrawn.  You should have met him three years ago; you would have not recognised him.  Sharp as a tack, but with Farkas' joyful disposition, even if he never was as carefree.” 

It was almost impossible to imagine the big warrior thus.  “And Farkas?”, Wulf asked.  His friend had never struck him as somebody who was struggling with his nature. 

“Farkas is...Farkas”, Alea simply answered and they all chuckled at the profound pronouncement.  “He follows his brother's lead, you've got that right.  Always has, always will.” 

“I don't think he could scrape together enough thoughts to worry”, Skjor grumbled with obvious fondness for his shield-brother and got poked with a stick by Aela. 

“Tell me more about those urges you've mentioned earlier, Aela”, Wulf prompted. 

“You'll always want to turn, it's...addictive almost.  The strength, the pure _power_.”  She noticed the way he was looking at her.  “All power is a double edged sword, Wulf”, Aela admitted.  “But being a wolf does not make you a bad person.  Rather, it's the other way around.  Think about it this way”, the Huntress suggested “You like sweets, but you don't eat all you come across.” 

“Unless you're Farkas”, Skjor interrupted her and received an angry glare in return. 

“You don't drink until you fall over every night...”

‘Unless you're Torvar’, Wulf's mind supplied all by itself.

“...and you don't screw anybody just because you can.  Sometimes people tick you off, but you don't kill them for it.  You could, but you don't.  It's just a matter of self-control.”  She shrugged.  “The more bad vices you have as a human and the more susceptible you are to giving in to them, the more likely you are to be ruled the beast.” 

Wulf nodded his understanding.  There was crime aplenty in the world and as a rule the guilty did not have the excuse of lycanthropy.  A violent person would result in a violent beast.  Like his magic, being a werewolf gave him the possibility to harm those around him.  Which didn't mean that he had to use it.  If he ever needed to, though...  Wulf couldn't even begin to imagine how his life would have turned out if he had not mastered the few magic spells he was capable of casting.  Most likely he'd be dead. 

He fidgeted with his coat, feeling his resolve weaken. 

Everything Wulf had learned had the purpose of ensuring his survival, of giving him an edge over his enemies. 

There was another prominent thought that would not give him peace.  If becoming a werewolf would cure him of any diseases, maybe it would set right whatever was wrong with him and the ‘Dragonborn’ business. 

It was certainly worth giving it a try, though first he had to know another thing:

“Is it reversible?”, Wulf enquired, feeling his heartbeat quicken with excitement.  “Can it be cured?” 

“Cured?”  Skjor appeared offended at his poor choice of words.  “Now you sound like the old man.” 

“Well?” 

“You have a right to know”, Aela conceded.  “Kodlak and Vilkas are both working on a way to end their lycanthropy.  They have not yet found the means to, but they know that their so-called ‘cure’ must be linked to the Glenmoril Coven.  If you ask me, it's only a matter of time until they find something.”  

Wulf saw Skjor nod in grim affirmation.  “It's their business.  If they want to throw this gift away, let them do so.”  He indicated Aela and himself with a sweep of his hand and said “We will go our own way.” 

They lapsed into silence once more as everyone was lost on his own thoughts.  Wulfryk might cry ‘For Sovngarde’ when he charged into a fight, but the truth was that he had never spared many thoughts on the afterlife.  If he did it was usually something along the lines of ‘I don't want to go there yet.’ 

In his journeys Wulf had come across more concepts of the afterlife than he could name and while he did not relish joining some Deadric Prince in afterlife, a hunt did sound more exciting than endless drunk revelry.  Or he could be reborn in the Eternal Sleeve.  As a Jarl, if he was lucky, but he was far more likely to become some peasant farmer.  Wulf shuddered at the very thought. 

And being a werewolf might keep from dying.  Which was exactly the point.  Once Kodlak had the cure, he could always revoke his decision anyway. 

Wulf was still not entirely convinced though.  “How is it going to help me _now_?”, he wanted to know.  “With Farkas and the rescue?” 

It was Skjor who spoke up this time.  “The healer already took care of your wounds, but your body remembers the injury.  When you become a wolf, you will not feel the pain as such.  Wild animals have a vigour that humans do not.  You're weak now, from your infection and from being confined to your bed.  A transformation will have a stronger effect than any stamina potion.  Drink a few of those and in the days that it will take us to catch up to the Silver Hand you'll be as good as new.” 

“But beware”, the warrior warned Wulf  “If you get hurt while you are transformed, your human form will be wounded as well.  You might feel like it, but you're not invincible.” 

“Besides”, Aela piped up once more “I already told you that you will be a member of the Circle.  You can do as you please as such, as long as you do not bring dishonour to the Companions:” 

“I think, maybe a demonstration is in order?”, Skjor suggested with a smile at Aela and she jumped up from her place on the floor. 

“Oh, yes!” 

She did not waste any time, either.  Wulf noticed that her transformation was much faster and much smoother than Farkas'.  And when she was done it was no longer a woman that stood before him, but neither was it a wolf.  There were differences, evident ones once you looked close enough. 

He involuntarily tensed up and almost called upon his magic, until the wolf looked up at the ceiling with a heavy sigh and Wulf realized that Aela was rolling her eyes at him.  The gesture was so reminiscent of his friend, he could not help but chuckle.  It was almost surreal, that a human would just...he didn't even have the right words to describe what he had just witnessed. 

Wulf found that he was fascinated, now that he was not panicking, as he had done in the Cairn when he had watched Farkas turn.  Aela's fur had the same reddish brown colour as her hair and her light brown eyes looked back at him full of mischief – and intelligence.  She had grown in size, too.  Wulf slowly extended his hand and ran it down the wolf's muscular flank, still half-afraid that either it was just a very clever illusion and he would grab Aela's breast or that all this was actually real, and his hand was going to be bitten off. 

But the fur was soft and warm under his fingers and he saw the corners of the wolf's snout pull up.  She was grinning at him, though he could not tell how he knew.  Wulf flicked Aela's ear and she shook her head. 

He'd done plenty of stupid things.  Trying skooma was not even on the top of Wuf's list, although that was one week of lost memories that he wasn't getting back.  Shit, that little voice in his head was talking again and Wulf knew that it was up to no good. 

“How long does it last?”, he asked, hoarse now.  It would be the height of folly to accept.  It would be crazy not to. 

“Until she decides to turn back”, Skjor replied.  “If you let it run its course...a few hours.” 

“What do I have to do?”  It wasn't him speaking, although it was Wulf's mouth forming those words. 

In answer the elder Companion retrieved a small knife that looked like it had ritualistic purposes rather than being a weapon.  Aela extended a paw towards her lover, looked back at Wulf and winked.  Skjor nicked her arm – leg – whatever and let the blood flow into a tiny cup that Wulf had not noticed before, extending it towards the other man once it was half-full. 

“Drink the blood?”  Wulf's gaze was slightly incredulous and he asked “Really?”  Wrinkling his nose he added “Do you know how many diseases you can get from this!?” 

“Disease will no longer be a concern of yours once the beastblood flows through your veins”, Skjor calmly stated. 

Aela had turned back in the meantime, Wulf noticed.  “The transformation can be unpleasant at first.  If you feel a sharp pain in the chest, don't panic”, she advised, wrapping a bandage around her forearm.  “Just relax, it will pass quickly.  I envy you, you know?  The first time is always the most intense.” 

“You're sure this is a good idea?”  It wasn't.  He didn't have to ask to know that.  But then exploring ancient Ayleid ruins had never been a good idea and yet things had always worked out well – as had coming to Skyrim and a dozen other life-changing decisions.  In the end, everything turned to the best, always.  

He still wasn't sure why he should accept this ‘gift’, but he wanted to experience what it was like, being a werewolf.  ‘Damn his curiosity to Oblivion and back’, Wulf thought.  Self-reflection was no more a strength of his than it was that of the Khajiit whose mentality he shared. What he did he did because he could, the rest of the world be damned.

Aela and Skjor just grinned at each other, and then at Wulf. 

Fuck it.  Wulfryk lifted the cup as if in a toast and raised it to his lips.  “Your health.” 

 

xxxx

 

Aela watched with rabid attention as her friend set down his cup, his movements exaggeratedly slow and careful.  They would have another brother.  The pack would grow and the Companions would flourish.  She could not wait for them to go on a hunt together and felt a huge smile spread across her face.  Wulf would become a member of the Circle and they could go rescue Farkas together and finally leave their quarrels behind.  Jorrvaskr would be safe. 

It really was a beautiful night. 

At first nothing exciting happened.  Wulf sat down again and was shaking his head from time from time, like he wanted to clear his head or maybe get rid of an annoying vision.  Aela hoped that his body would not reject the beastblood.  She had heard of it happening, but it seemed her worries were unfounded. 

A moment later Wulf slid down to his knees, using is hands to hold himself up.  It was one of the quickest turnings, Aela had ever witnessed.  Her friend took well to the wolf, after all. 

When it jumped up, the Huntress admired the werewolf's grace, its black fur that almost made it disappear in the darkness and its sheer size.  ‘Skjor wouldn't like it, being the second-biggest from now on’, she thought.  Her lover was competitive and the strongest of the pack, able to overpower even Farkas, when in his beast form. 

Aela's gaze slid back to Wulf, who looked slightly forlorn, turning around in circles.  She called out to him and watched as her friend stilled, ears twitching.  Wulf's eyes had kept their icy blue colour, but when he looked back at the Companion, there was no recognition in them. 

Slowly, the wolf lowered its head, hackles rising. 

Aela had hunted enough wild animals to know what would come next.  She felt her pulse race.  She did not dare to move as much as a single muscle.  “Skjor, I think something's wrong.” 

“What are you talking about?  It worked.”  Skjor took a step forward. 

The werewolf turned its eyes to the approaching Companion and tensed. 

Then, it lunged. 

Aela shouted in alarm when Skjor did not evade the attack in time and she saw her lover go down hard, falling flat on his back.  But the momentum of its leap carried the beast over Skjor and it crashed into the door that was behind it.  The wood groaned in protest and then the door swung open a bit.  It was light outside.  Amidst their discussion they must have lost track of the time. 

Aela saw the werewolf lift its massive head and sniff the air.  Its ears perked up as it forgot about the two warriors close to it. 

Skjor was trying to get up, but his movements were sluggish; he must have hit his head or suffered some other injury during his fall.  The Huntress knew she couldn't stop Wulf's beast, but she could distract it.  Distract it and then turn and run like the Great Hunt itself was behind her.  Slowly enough not to provoke another attack she picked up a stone and tossed it at the werewolf, hitting it hard on the front flank.  It spun around with a growl and then its eyes fixed on Aela. 

Time seemed to stand still for a brief moment, until from outside there came the crunch of gravel as somebody strode across the courtyard.   Half a heartbeat later an angry shout rang out.  “Skjor, Aela what in Oblivion are you waiting for!?  It's dawn already, we must -” 

‘ _Find Farkas_ ’, Aela supplied in her head, even as she watched in numb horror as the werewolf's muscles bunched and it leapt, knocking aside the door.  It was outside in a flash of black fur. 

Outside. 

But not through the hidden passage and out into the wilds, but straight into Jorrvaskr's courtyard.  Into the middle of Whiterun. 

 

xxxx

 

Vilkas rounded the corner when the door to the Underforge suddenly swung open and a werewolf black as coal bounded out.  The Companion stopped in his tracks, staring.  He knew those blue eyes. 

“No.”  Gods, they didn't –

Of course they had. 

He felt a blinding rage at Skjor's and Aela's treachery.  Worst of all, they had pulled Wulf into their schemes and condemned him to this cursed life as well.  Vilkas stormed towards the cave when he saw Aela emerge.  He'd have their hides, he'd... 

“Vilkas, careful, Wulf's not -!” 

She never got to finish, and Vilkas barely managed to raise his right arm to protect his face, when the beast took him down, claws raking across his steel breastplate with a jarring screech.  Vilkas felt its teeth tear through his flesh and even his steel bracers did not do him much good.  Bone snapped.  He felt a twist and his vision turned white from the sudden pain.  The werewolf tossed the Companion away like a doll and went after the fallen man again. 

And suddenly, Vilkas was fighting for his life.  With his bare, bloodied hands, because he had nothing else.  He tried to keep the werewolf off, kicked its snout and kneed it hard in the ribcage.  But it only enraged it more.  Teeth snapped and a hot bolt of agony shot through the Companion's shoulder. 

He was kicking and throwing punches, desperately trying to keep those teeth from his face.  He was also losing.  Vilkas felt his strength give out and his left arm slipped from under the wolf's throat.  This time, it went for his throat. 

There was a piercing scream and all movement ceased. 

Lydia stood atop the stairs to Jorrvaskr, sword in hand.  She was frozen as she stared at the scene before her. 

Her cry had turned everyone's attention towards her, even that of...of the werewolf.  The Companions were battling a real werewolf.  It even had a name.  _Wulf_. 

The beast let off its prey and looked at Lydia for a split second, before it jumped free and ran past the startled housecarl, and further into Whiterun. 

As if in slow motion, Vilkas saw Aela sprint after the werewolf.  He watched the arrival of the city guard and Skjor's appearance.  The picture in front of his eyes began to swim and blur.  Everything hurt, even breathing.  He couldn't move.  Vilkas knew that he was in shock, that he had to calm down.  Amidst all the chaos he found Skjor's voice like a beacon, an anchor of sanity. 

“Guardsman, arrest her.  She attacked a Companion!  She must be in allegiance with the monster!” 

Vilkas dimly noticed the housecarl's shocked face, saw her whip around in surprise when two guards, probably comrades of hers grabbed her.  There was shouting, but it seemed to come from far, far away now.  A shadow blocked out the rest of the scene, and he closed his eyes. 

Something slapped his face sharply. 

The sting was nothing compared to the pain in his arm and shoulder, but it made the warrior snap his eyes open nonetheless.  Skjor's face slowly came into focus.  The elder Companion was kneeling over him, saying something that Vilkas could not understand over the sound of his own screams.  When his friend took his hand though, he tried to twist away from the agony, buckling and kicking Skjor in the process to get him off, have him let go. 

But the other man was relentless in pressing his own hand to his neck, pushing Vilkas' fingers into the gaping wound there to stem the flow of blood.  And then he left, taking his shadow with him and the courtyard was empty and silent once more save for the sobbing cries of the man bleeding out over Jorrvaskr's cobblestones. 

Those died down quickly, though. 

Vilkas opened his eyes again when the pain began to fade.  The sky was a clear, beautiful blue, the clouds almost too bright to look at, but his vision was fuzzy and blurred around the edges enough that he did not care.  The hard stone beneath him was heated from the sun and though the same sun's rays were now shining down on him, the warrior was shivering with cold. 

Thankfully, he was coated in something warm; it dripped down his neck, seeping into his shirt and collar and running down his chest and arm. 

Vilkas smelled blood. 

He briefly wondered who was hurt, before remembering that it was him.  Was all that blood really his?  Why was he lying on the ground?  He should get up, but a few heartbeats after felling that decision he found that he had not moved an inch, save for closing his eyes. 

They had shut of their own accord and he did not find the strength to open them again. 


	23. BTS

Aela's breath came in short, strained gasps.  Her lungs hurt and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in her side, but she did not let any of those discomforts slow her down.  She ducked under a low-hanging branch, vaulted over a decorative wooden fence and sprinted across somebody's immaculate front garden, trampling flower beds and vegetables alike in her mad dash to reach the upper district. 

Her recurve bow was clutched in her hand, but the sweat on her palms made her grip slippery and the weapon's weight made running awkward.  A quiver was slung across Aela's shoulders and the arrows jumped with the Companion's every step, clattering loudly.  Those were the only two items the Huntress had grabbed before she had taken off after her friend, who was now a werewolf and responsible for the panic spreading throughout Whiterun. 

Behind her, Aela could hear the shouting of the city guard, their voices beind momentarily drowned whenever the alarm bells' shrill ring resounded over the city.  She did not look back though, her entire focus on catching up to Wulf.  The soldiers were too slow anyway, weighted down by their heavy armour and she quickly left them behind. 

Although the hour was still early, the streets in the market district were already crowded with vendors who carried goods to their stalls and impatient customers, which was exactly why Aela was taking a shortcut, darting through other people's gardens and around corners of narrow, deserted alleyways.  Here, she did not have to battle against the current of terrified citizens who were fleeing in the opposite direction. 

The Huntress had lost sight of her quarry within a moment's notice after the werewolf broke away from Jorrvaskr, but even so she knew where to go. 

All she had to do was follow the screams. 

And they were coming closer with every step she took. 

When Aela finally arrived at a smaller square in the back of the Wind District, she found the place deserted, in spite of all the activity that had been around her just a few heartbeats ago. 

People had climbed walls in their haste to get away and some were now watching from the safety of their homes, lining windows and pointing fingers. 

The Companion came to a halt and looked around after one of the onlookers beckoned wildly towards one of the homes.  Her left hand went to her quiver out of habit and she pulled an arrow, nocking it to the bow's taut string.  Should Wulf attack, she would only have one chance to defend herself.  But the wolf's attention was not on her and neither did it pay the people around it any heed, strange though that was. 

Instead, it jogged along with its nose close to the ground and seemingly oblivious to everything that went on around it.  Aela followed carefully, keeping a safe distance and debating what she should do now.  She had not thought past ‘catch up to Wulf’, but now that she had accomplished that, there was the big question of ‘what now?’, running through her mind. 

People were probably wondering why she did not shoot the werewolf, but she could easily explain that away.  Some lie about only silver weapons being able to kill werewolves and not wanting to anger it by injuring it should do nicely.  After all, what did the common rabble know about Hircine's favourite hunters?  Aela nervously clenched and loosened her grip on the bow.  She might not kill Wulf, but the city guard would be more than happy to do so.

And she could not allow that to happen.  He was one of them and she was the one responsible for the state he was in right now, although his aggression towards his shield-siblings was unusual.  But then the beastblood could overwhelm human sense. 

Damn it to Oblivion, he was giving them more trouble than even Farkas at his first turning! 

They arrived at a part of town far in the back, where the poorer homes stood.  Aela had to jog to keep up.  She briefly wondered where the soldiers were, but most likely they wanted to see if a Companion was up to dealing with the threat on her own.  It bought her time, if nothing else. 

She still did not have a plan and a glimpse towards Dragonsreach confirmed her fear; a line of soldiers was advancing from the barracks.  The sunlight glinted off the tips of their spears and many carried bows as well.  Damn, damn, _damn_.

Up front, Wulf growled and Aela heard the panicked braying of livestock.  At least he was hunting animals, not people.  There was a resounding crash and an excited bark that the Huntress knew immediately belonged to no dog.

As it turned out, the werewolf had startled some farmer's poor cow and ended up chasing the terrified animal through the city and around the Gildergreen, Aela close on their heels.  The shaggy cow must have broken out of a pen; a chain was loped around its horns and was dragging behind with a metallic rattle.  The black wolf snapped at and jumped after the flying chain like it was the greatest game, looking by all accounts like a giant puppy playing with its favourite toy. 

The Companion found it hard to believe that just two or three minutes ago it had attacked Vilkas, grievously injuring the big warrior.  Aela had seen the blood, had heard her friend scream, but then everything happened so quickly and she decided to follow Wulf.  Besides, she had seen Skjor come out of the Underforge and though her lover had had a hand pressed to his head, he looked to be fine.  He'd take care of Vilkas, of that she was sure.  Danica would patch him up, she always did. 

No, Aela had to worry about herself – and about Wulf, because the soldiers had arrived.  And from two directions at that, having fought their way through the masses.  Soon, they were surrounded and some men called out to the Huntress, asked her if she was alright and praising her idea of distracting the monster with a cow. 

Only _, the monster_ was her shield-brother and friend. 

In the close confines of the city the soldiers would not risk shooting their bows for fear of missing and accidentally hitting somebody on the other side, but their spears were sharp and their shields up.  The appearance of so many men made the werewolf pause and regard them with keen interest, but it drove the already scared cow into a frenzy. 

Her gallop was a lopsided, ungainly thing that would have been funny under different circumstances, but not now that she charged the front line of soldiers, those who had come as reinforcements from the gates.  Head lowered, those horns could easily impale a grown man and the guards hurriedly scrambled out of her way. 

Wulf did not wait around, either.  Be it through some shred of human intelligence or the instinct of a cornered animal, the werewolf vaulted onto the cow's back in a single leap and pushed off, sailing over the nearest soldier and landing several yards behind the line of men.  A collective groan came from the guard; now that they had finally caught up, the chase would begin again and many were out of breath already, at least those who had taken the stairs up. 

Aela darted for the gap that had formed, inwardly cheering her friend on who loped ahead, careless and sedate and barely keeping in front of the soldiers who followed. 

The werewolf stopped when the gap between them grew too small, turned and snarled; a sound that set even the most seasoned fighter's teeth on edge.  It carried the promise of death and the hint of the Hunting Grounds.  It made men aware of the fact that they, not the wolf, were the hunted ones.  That they were prey. 

A few men faltered in their rush and their comrades bumped into them, sending some guards sprawling.  There was cursing and stumbling and somebody dropped a spear while trying to disentangle himself. 

Spectators gathered, drawn by the shouts and began to come closer still in order to get a better look, for now that the first shock of seeing a werewolf had worn off they were curious.  And completely oblivious to the danger they were in and to how much they were hindering the soldiers. 

‘That cow had more sense than most of them’, Aela thought with bitter amusement.

If the situation had not been so dire, she would have rolled around with laughter at the show.  Here was Whiterun's finest, falling one over the other so as not to be the first one to confront the lone wolf that trotted ahead of them, leading this weird procession. 

But for the first time today it was going in the right direction.  They passed the market and shops and then Whiterun's walls loomed ahead and Aela had an idea.  It was high time, too. 

“Open the gates!” 

Nothing happened at first and the Huntress gasped for air and repeated her shout, forcing a tone of command into her voice. 

“OPEN THE GATES!” 

She did not know how the lone guard stranding sentry must have felt, watching a werewolf, a Companion and the bulk of soldiers storm towards him, but at least he acted without questioning her. 

The gates swung open. 

The guard threw himself out of the way when the werewolf leaped ahead in a burst of speed that would put the Jarl's coursing hounds to shame and pressed himself against the wall, but the black beast sped past him without noticing the cowering man.  Aela admired its pure power, the play of muscles under its fur as it positively flew down the road and further, past the stables. 

Wulf was out in the open.  He was safe.  She could have laughed, but she had precious little breath left.  Instead she turned to wait for the other guards.

“I'll take it from here”, the Huntress said to nobody in particular, when they finally arrived.

“You sure?”, a soldier gasped. 

Aela thought he sounded relieved and gave a curt nod.  “The Companions have worked hard to flush this one out.  We shall not be robbed of the honour of bringing it down.” 

Before he had a chance to answer, she was off again, sprinting towards the stables. 

 

xxxx

 

Lydia thought she had misheard at first.  _In allegiance with the monster._  

When two guards moved to apprehend her, she still could think of nothing else except that this was a bad dream.  A very, very bad dream. 

One of the men grabbed her arm and the first coherent thought flashed through her mind.  She could fight them. 

“Lydia, please.” 

She recognised the voice, even though the speaker's face was hidden behind his helmet.  It was Derek.  Signy was sweet on him.  Was this what it had come to?  That she had to kill her fellow guards, her friends? 

Lydia slowly let the tip of her sword sink.  She could not do it.  Her loyalties should lie only with the man who had been appointed her Thane, whom she had seen for the first time today, but she could not butcher people she had grown up with in cold blood.  She was a better warrior than either of them, but this time Lydia surrendered without a fight. 

“Lydia, please let's get out of here.” 

They took her sword and began to push her towards the keep, casting nervous looks around.  They were afraid, she noticed, and eager to get out of danger as well.  She could not blame them.  When she had seen the werewolf she, a seasoned fighter, had screamed like a little girl. 

Lydia walked between her two captors, numb with shock and bitter resentment towards the Companion who was responsible for her heading straight towards jail.  Derek's arm went around hers and she wondered if it was meant as a consolation or if he wanted to make sure that she would not run. 

She wondered if her friends believed the charges, but it did not matter.  An accusation this grave would have to be brought before the Jarl.  The only question remaining was: why?  Why had Skjor lied?  They both knew it was not true and she did not believe the Jarl would fall for it, either. 

“You know, I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding”, the other guard spoke up and now Lydia could put a name to him as well: Alof. 

“Yeah”, Derek threw in.  “We don't believe it”, he assured her “But...”

Orders are orders.  “I know”, Lydia sighed.  If she had been one of the guards, she would have done exactly the same.  “I'm looking forward to hearing what went through his head, though, to accuse me of something we all know is _not_ true”, Lydia muttered and was relieved to see both soldiers nod at the ‘not true’ part. 

Derek shrugged.  “Maybe the shock of seeing a werewolf rattled his brains, you never know.  My cousin once stumbled into a grove of spriggans.  Poor sod ain't been the same ever since.” 

They all shared a laugh and the tension slowly drained away. 

“Hey, cheer up, big girl”, Alof said when they arrived at the prison and Derek opened the door for them.  “You'll be safer in here than us.” 

They could still hear the shouting and the ring of the alarm bells.  Derek motioned her into a cell on the left side and locked the door once she was inside. 

“I'm sorry.”  He stood there, in the middle of the corridor, wringing his hands.  “Is there anything you need?” 

They never spoke like this, with this strange mix of caution and courtesy.  Usually, there was a lot more cursing and drunk name-calling. 

Lydia looked around her cell; it was one of the better ones with a clean cot and even a table and chairs.  “Could you get me some water?”, she asked, not able to think of anything else. 

“Sure”, he answered, seemingly glad to have something to do and looked around, but no pitcher was in sight.  “I'll be right back!” 

“Hey, Derek!”, Lydia shouted after the retreating man and watched him turn around at the door.  “Don't get eaten!” 

Silence fell, once the doors closed and Lydia sank down on the cot with her head buried in her hands.  What had she done to the Companions to deserve this!?  Nothing!  Well, she had complained to the Jarl, but only because they would not let her see her Thane, as was her right. 

Kodlak personally had invited her to Jorrvaskr today.  Lydia wished she had arrived a few minutes later.  Then maybe she would not have overheard Aela calling out to Vilkas. 

She swallowed and looked up with a hammering heart, mouth dry all of a sudden.  Her Thane was a werewolf.  Aela's shout had made that quite clear. 

So that's why she wasn't allowed to see him.  What were they afraid of, that she'd know?  As his housecarl she would have found out anyway sooner or later.  Or maybe...the problem was another one.  She _was_ his housecarl.  Sworn to serve and protect him.  

It had been drilled into her every single day since she had first picked up a blade.  He might be a monster but Lydia could not break loose from a lifetime of training.  She had taken an oath, dammit!  The Divines themselves would turn away from her if she abandoned her vows, her duty as húskarl.  Her loyalties were not with Whiterun, or the Jarl, or her fellow soldiers.  They were with her Thane. 

Lydia swallowed, wishing she had asked Derek for something stronger than water.  Gods, she was doomed. 

Maybe it wasn't as bad as all that.  Besides, she had never actually met the _man_. 

And she never would, if the Companions had their way.  Lydia understood now why she was not allowed near him.  They were afraid that she'd protect him!  Gods, she had been so blind!  They were going to kill him!  They were going to kill her Thane while she sat idly in this bloody cell, and there was nothing -

The doors suddenly swung open again.  Lydia immediately recognised the short, bulky form of her friend Signy. 

“Derek sent me”, the redhead puffed.  “He said you got arrested!  I could not believe it!  Dammit girl, what did you get yourself into this time!?” 

“Skjor accused me of helping the werewolf”, Lydia answered, sniffing with the insult.  Of course, she intended to help him now, so maybe the charge was closer to the truth than she'd like to admit. 

“What!  That's...ridiculous!”, Signy cried.  “You did nothing the like!  We will all vouch for you, don't you worry. The Jarl will have to free you and I already got some of the guard to agree to speak up in favor for you!  Companions, eh?  We common soldiers have to stick together.” 

Lydia felt her heart warm.  “Thank you.”  It was good to know her friends were all loyal to her, that not even Skjor's word was enough to turn them against her.  “What's going on out there?”, she enquired, not wanting to appear all sappy. 

“They ran the werewolf out of the city.  Aela went after it, she said she'd deal with it”, Signy answered, confirming Lydia's fears.  “Nobody was hurt thank the gods, except for that Companion, Vilkas, from what I hear.  Oh, and I've got your water.”  She lifted the pitcher, as if Lydia could not see it already. 

“That's good”, Lydia sighed, her thoughts not really with the people of the city or the dark haired warrior from Jorrvaskr.  Her stomach was churning, but she had to trust her friend.  “Listen, Signy”, she began, fully knowing that the redhead might think she had lost it once she told her what she had just found out. 

“They're going to kill him!”, Lydia burst out. 

“Who's killing whom?”  Her friend looked confused. 

Lydia took a deep breath, let it out again and began anew.  “The Companions are going to kill my Thane!”, she stated with confidence. 

“Do you know how crazy you sound?”  The other woman was staring at her wide-eyed. 

“I know, but it's true, you have to believe me.”  Lydia did not know when she had gotten up, but her hands were clenched around the bars of her cell.  “The werewolf –”, she paused for a moment “The hunt that's when they intend to do it.  That's why I'm here.  See?  They had to get me out of the way first!” 

“Are you sure?”  Signy still did not sound convinced. 

“I am!”, Lydia moaned.  “Believe me, I wish I was wrong, but I'm not.  I have to get out of here”, she pleaded with the other woman. 

Slowly, her fellow soldier nodded.  They had never lied to each other, after all.  And Lydia thought the truth was so outrageous, it could not be anything but.  Signy must have been able to see how desperate she was, because something changed in her demeanour.  She had felled a decision, Lydia knew and prayed that it was one in her favour. 

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”, the redhead enquired and added after a while, eyebrows raised suggestively “You know I can't _actively_ help you.” 

She was holding out the earthenware jar and Lydia took it gingerly.  The pottery was brittle and without a warning she smashed it into the side of her friend's head.  The pitcher shattered, spraying water over both of them and ripping a shallow gash in Signy's temple.  The dark red of her blood soon mingled with the fiery red of her hair, but the warrior barely flinched.  She had gotten worse in countless tavern brawls. 

“What was that for?”, the guardswoman spluttered. 

“I knocked you out!”, Lydia exclaimed.  It should have been obvious, really. 

“You are one crazy bitch”, Signy complained.  “Alright, you knocked me out.  What then?” 

“I steal your keys”, Lydia supplied.  “You do have the keys, right?”  A note of desperation crept into her voice.  She should have asked first.

Signy rolled her eyes in answer, not doing anything to wipe the blood from her brow.  “Of course I do.  I batted my eyelashes at Derek and he handed them right over.  So you stole my keys”, she mused and unlocked the door.  “You know, I think this could really work out.” 

“Thank you!”  Lydia threw her arms around her friend briefly.  “And I'm sorry about your face.” 

“Nah, it's not that bad.  Off you go, now”, the redhead made a shooing motion at her friend.  “I'm unconscious after all, remember?”, she grumbled and lay down on the floor, closing her eyes.  Lydia wasted no time in getting her things from the chest where all prisoner's belongings were kept and packing a few supplies as well. 

Signy blinked open one eye “You owe me big time!”, she muttered and before the other woman could leave she called “Lydia!  Don't get yourself eaten out there!” 

The housecarl laughed all the way to the stables. 

 

xxxx

 

The piebald horse snapped at Aela when she tightened the saddle girth and she jerked back just in time escape its teeth.  A hoof stomped on her foot and the Huntress shouted a curse and clouted the animal hard, not that it had much visible effect except for the annoyed swish of a tail.  The horse seemed unimpressed with its human, though it lazily shifted its weight, putting its hoof on the ground once more. 

Aela refrained from massaging her aching foot.  She had never been much of a rider, preferring to travel in her wolf form whenever possible.  She cursed some more, just for good measure and jerked her mount's head up with more force than necessary.  It had gone right back to grazing.  Gods, she hated horses! 

The Companion put a foot in the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle, almost falling off on the other side when the horse moved suddenly, choosing the one moment in which it should have stood still. 

“You know what?”, Aela scolded it “You wouldn't be so bloody obnoxious if you knew what I was!”  Though some animals were able to sense the beastblood in humans, others remained seemingly oblivious to it.  “I look at you and see a nice, juicy haunch.  Now behave!” 

The horse snorted in answer.  Aela thought it sounded like laughter.  She dug her heels into its sides and got the animal moving, thankfully without further argument. 

For two days she had followed Wulf across the plains of Whiterun.  They had no destination, their path leading them in a zig-zag, the werewolf's trot devouring miles, tireless. 

The Companion had taken a waterskin from the stables and shot small animals for food, hares and once she managed to kill a pheasant.  She had her bow and quiver, a knife and two firestones and a wire for traps in her pouch.  It was all she needed to survive in the wilds.  She wished for warmer clothes, but at night there was a fire to warm her and she wrapped herself in the horse's saddlecloth.  It stank of the animal's sweat and she had to let it dry first, but it was better than nothing. 

Two days.  She had never known a transformation to last this long.  A day, at most.  Normally, the beastblood ran its course and the werewolf turned back into its human form after a couple of hours.  Unless it fed, of course. 

They had come upon a camp of hunters yesterday.  They were preparing for the night, stringing up tents and laying out bedrolls around their campfire.  Aela heard them from afar, their voices loud and boisterous and some were slurred.  They never noticed the dark shadow that crept around their camp until it was too late.  An elderly Nord went down with the werewolf's jaws closed around his neck; a powerful jerk, a terrible crunching sound and he lay still.  The man had not stood a chance. 

The others were shouting and a boy had screamed for his father, but was held back by another man.  None of them followed when the black wolf dragged the limp corpse away.

Aela stayed away, as well.  She did not need to see what she knew was happening.  They had all done things, terrible things during their first changes.  Vilkas, Farkas, Skjor.  Aela had prayed on humans before she had learned to control the beast inside her, as had Kodlak.  They had talked about it, once, and never again. 

The wolf found shelter later that night under an overhanging rock and lay down to sleep.  He should have turned back a long time ago.  Aela let her fingers run over her bow.  It might be better to deliver him from this existence, better to die than to remain a mindless beast.  Because he was no more than that.  She was no longer able to deny it that her friend was gone, probably for good. 

One more night.  She would give him just one more night, Aela decided, her eyes on Wulf's resting place. 

Like any true hunter her entire focus was on her quarry.  She never noticed the tiny speck in the distance that trailed after her. 

 

xxxx

 

Aela was startled by a horse's exciting neighing and the rapid beat of hooves that could only belong to an approaching rider.  She was wide awake within a moment and jumped up, only to see a mounted warrior bearing down on her, sword raised.  Whoever charged her wore a helmet and she could not see her attacker's face.  It sparked some curiosity in the Companion, but she did not let surprise stop her from drawing her bow and letting the arrow fly. 

She was quick, for Aela always kept an arrow nocked to the string, just in case, and her bow was never out of the reach of her arm.  But there was no time for her to aim properly and the rider was even quicker.  The arrow bounced harmlessly off a raised shield and before the Huntress could do anything else, the horse collided with her, sending her sprawling into the bushes. 

There was a loud crack and the string of her bow slapped against her forearm, leaving a bloody welt.  Unstrung, the weapon leaped back into its original shape, smacking her shoulder.  Aela groaned, rolled over and got up, drawing her knife. 

The rider had dismounted in the meantime and approached slowly, sword and shield held at guard.  The odds were now decidedly in favour of the mysterious attacker.  But the Huntress was far from defenceless. 

“Who are you?”, she called out, not willing to rip apart the warrior before she knew his identity, at least.  Was it a member of the Silver Hand, or...?

The warrior removed her helmet, revealing a face that Aela recognised and shouted back “I am Lydia, housecarl to the Thane of Whiterun and you will not harm him, Companion, or I'll carve you in half!” 

There was a moment of stunned silence and the Huntress had to admire the other woman for her dedication and for catching a Companion – almost – flat-footed.  So she had figured out the identity of the werewolf and still wanted to protect him?  That was admirable, but Aela still had a blade pointing at her and her relief was somewhat dampened by it. 

“Your Thane does not need your protection, housecarl”, she tried reasonably.  “Why don't you return to Whiterun and let me deal with the situation?”  If anybody, she was the expert on werewolves, after all.  Not that she could come out and say so. 

“You wish!”, Lydia laughed.  No housecarl in his right mind would leave his Thane because somebody told him or her to _go home_.  “You want me to leave, so you can kill him!  I've seen through you little scheme!” 

“Oh, snap out of it, woman”, Aela growled “If I was going to kill him, don't you think that I would have shot him already?!” 

“What do I know?”, Lydia retorted.  “Maybe you wanted to build a trap?  I've seen you ride, you wouldn't stay on top of a panicked horse for three heartbeats.  You miss on your first shot and you'll and up as a meal.” 

Not bloody likely, but Aela felt the insult sing.  “My arrows don't miss!”, she replied heatedly. 

“You missed me!”, Lydia mocked.  

“Morning, ladies”, an amused voice interrupted their argument. 

Both women jumped and turned around to find a man sitting on the stump of a tree not twenty feet away, watching the show and rubbing a hand over his face.  Wulf looked well-rested, although there was blood smeared across his jaw and beard and peeling off his chest in dry, reddish brown flakes.  He scratched at it, frowning mildly and spat at the ground, grimacing at the taste in his mouth. 

“Wulf!”, Aela exclaimed in delight and rushed to her friend's side.  “Gods, I thought we'd lost you for good.” 

“Hello, Aela.”  Her worry more than anything else told him that something bad had happened, but then he had been trying to figure out why in Oblivion he was lying in a den in the undergrowth for the last half-hour. 

“What's with all the blood?” , Wulf asked, pointing at his chest, where his hair was clotted and matted with it. 

“You killed a deer”, Aela quickly supplied.  If he did not remember his first kill, then maybe it was better if he never knew.  There was no need to burden his conscience with something he had had no control over, something they could not undo anyway.  She'd gladly spare him the guilt and self-loathing that she herself had once felt. 

“And who's your charming friend?”  Wulf looked past the Huntresses shoulder, where Lydia stood, looking slightly abashed. 

She had been wrong, after all.  The joy in Aela's face when she had seen her friend had been real and she had made a fool out of herself by coming here.  Gods, and she had dragged Signy into it.  Lydia wholeheartedly hoped that her friend was not in trouble because of her. 

Aela snorted.  “She's not my friend, she's yours.  Rushed here all the way from Whiterun to save you from me.”  Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. 

“Well, thank you”, Wulfryk addressed the dark haired woman and got up.  Losing his memory of the past days was no excuse for bad manners.  “I’m Wulf”, he introduced himself, looking briefly down his body, before extending his hand.  “And naked, apparently.  In the woods.  Must have been a hell of a night, it's too bad I don't recall any of it.  We have not met before, have we?  I'm sure I would not have forgotten a woman such as yourself.” 

He put on his most charming smile and Wulf knew he had won her over when she beamed up at him.  

“I'm Lydia”, the warrior answered somewhat breathlessly.  “The Jarl had appointed you as Thane of the city and me as your housecarl.  It's an honour to serve you.” 

Talos' balls, this was one weird meeting.  “I'm a Thane?”  Wulf raised his eyebrows.  “What's that?” 

“It means that the Jarl has recognized you as a person of great importance in the hold”, Lydia explained, still thrilled by meeting the man.  He _was_ handsome, and the Dragonborn, no less.  “A hero.  The title of Thane is an honour, a gift for your service, for slaying the dragon and saving Whiterun from it.” 

It sounded like a lot of responsibility to Wulf.  “So, what does a housecarl do?”, he asked, not really interested in the answer. 

“As my Thane, I'm sworn to your service.  I'll guard you and all you own with my life.” 

And she seemed so eager, too.  A guard?  Up to now that had been his job!  He almost groaned and then he saw Aela scowling at him and did.  “Why don't you take a bath, Wulf?”, she asked acridly.  “You smell like a slaughterhouse.” 

She pointed towards a nearby stream and he went that way, smiling because he thought he heard Lydia mutter that she did not mind him smelling manly.  It was not the the first time Wulf lost some memories, although there was usually drink involved.  Or drugs.  At any rate, he wasn't panicking right now. 

“You have something for me to wear?”, Wulfryk asked once he was back and all he got was a horse blanket to cover himself with.  Joy of fucking joys.  Lydia kept staring at him which he found bloody unsettling, almost as much as his shield-sister's simmering anger. 

“Aela?”, he called out when she would not acknowledge his presence.  “Are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to guess?” 

“What?”, she spat “You don't remember!?” 

“No, I don't remember.”  Why was she angry with him?  He had done nothing.  At least not since waking up.  “That's why I'm asking.” 

She must have been able to read something in his face, because all anger drained from Aela, to be replaced with a troubled expression.  “What do you remember?”, she prompted. 

He remembered the dragon attack and the trap of the Silver Hand, as well as the journey back to Whiterun.  Those memories were clear as the water of a mountain spring.  “I remember waking up in Jorrvaskr and telling you about Farkas.  I remember arguing with Vilkas and Skjor's visit and I remember the Underforge.”  Wulf paused before continuing.  “Next thing I know is I'm lying under that brush over there and you two are arguing.  That's all.” 

“Do you recall why we went into the Underforge?”, Aela pried further, but with much care. 

“Yes.”  He almost wished he didn't.  Wulf looked around, at the trees that surrounded them. “I guess this means we've succeeded.”  He felt tired all of a sudden. 

“Not quite.  You went crazy, attacked Skjor and almost ripped off Vilkas' arm”, Aela said.  "Then you chased livestock around Whiterun, escaped through the gates and spent the next two days running around before you killed that deer and went to sleep.”

“Fuck.”  Wulf thought the curse was appropriate for a situation like this. 

“How are you feeling?”, Aela enquired. 

Wulf noticed the dark circles under her eyes, realized how worn out she was. 

“Good.”  It was strange, but it was also true.  Wulf's shoulder did not ache anymore and his side was not giving him any trouble either.  But the mention of Vilkas made him think about the man's twin.  “What about Farkas?  What about the rescue?”  The Companion's only answer was a shrug. 

“Shit, Aela, you should not have gone after _me_!” 

“Maybe not.  But I did and there's no changing that.  We should return to Jorrvaskr now.” 

Lydia came over, leading her horse which was bridled, but carried no saddle.  “You can ride, my Thane”, she offered and helped him mount. 

“Right.”  Wulf wasn't going to argue with her about that.  He was glad for the horse's warmth.  The ground was cold and his bare toes felt like they were freezing already.  “Anybody got an idea what we're going to tell the guards at the gates?” 


	24. BTS

If Skjor had upended a bucket of icy water over Vilkas' head it would probably have made for a gentler awakening.  The young Companion was lying in the very same bed that Wulf had left only a day before, too still to truly be asleep.  His wounds were grievous, but the healers had done their work and all that remained was to wait for him to wake up. 

Brill had complained at length about being thrown out of his room, but a single look from Skjor had been enough to shut him up.  He had not brought the subject up again. 

The first time the wounded warrior's eyes had opened, he had fallen back into unconsciousness mere minutes later and not woken for hours.  Skjor had been able to coax him into drinking some water mixed with a powerful healing concoction then, and Vilkas had slept soundly, regaining colour by the hour. 

He no longer looked like a corpse, paler than the sheets he was resting upon.  It gave them all hope that he would make it.  

When Skjor had stumbled out of the Underforge, the sight that had greeted him had been that of his shield-brother being mauled by the black werewolf and though a voice in his head screamed that they had been betrayed by that conniving bastard Wulfryk, Skjor had come to Vilkas' aid instead chasing down the traitor.  He would let Aela deal with him. 

Though his arm looked bad, the Companion's neck and shoulder had been ripped open and he was bleeding out shockingly fast.  Skjor could either attempt to staunch the flow and hope for help to arrive in time or go get the healers himself.  He had chosen the second option, pressing Vilkas' hand to the wound, shouting at him to apply pressure, though he had not been certain whether the Companion had actually understood him. 

When he had returned with Danica - bless her heart for reacting so quickly - it was to find his shield-brother unconscious and barely alive, lying in a pool of blood that was twice the size of the man himself.  The healers had put a clamp on the damaged artery and sewn the big warrior up right there, in Jorrvaskr's courtyard.  Skjor and his shield-siblings had carried Vilkas inside then, because his arm needed further surgery and because a crowd of curious spectators was doing its best to distract the healers from their work. 

Night had fallen over Whiterun after a hectic day – not just for the Companions.  The city was in uproar, the patrols were doubled, Wulf was gone with Aela after him and the housecarl Skjor had wrongly accused of being in league with the werewolf had somehow managed to escape prison, after a sneaky attack on one of her fellow guards.  The only calm place seemed to be the sickroom, though Skjor knew that the peace would not last.  He was sitting in the eye of a storm, waiting with anxious anticipation for everything to come crashing down around him.  It did when Vilkas finally regained consciousness.   

One moment the warrior was asleep, the next he was sitting bolt upright, eyes roving over the room.  Then they fell on Skjor and a look pure disgust and hatred twisted his features.  He was aware and he _remembered._

It was a confrontation the older Companion had dreaded whilst he had kept the unconscious man company. 

“You!”, Vilkas growled, quite obviously angered by his shield-brother's presence.  “What have you done?”  It came out more as a breathless whisper than the shout it was undoubtedly meant to be.  Proof of Vilkas' despair, of how frayed his nerves were.  His composure was unravelling fast, falling apart like a badly woven tapestry. 

It was the anger that grounded him, that gave him strength. 

“You sodding idiot!!” 

Skjor had never been afraid of his shield-brother before, he respected the man for the warrior he was, but he had known Vilkas since the day Jergen had brought the whelps back to Jorrvaskr, starving, half-frozen and terrified.  It was hard to think of somebody as a threat, when you had wiped his snotty face when he'd cried, told him bedtime stories and spanked his arse when he had misbehaved. 

To accept that one day that pup would lead the Companions. 

Today, Skjor understood that the future Harbinger was not the boy he had been, the novice trainee that he had seen – and still, to this day, saw in him.  Today, for the first time in his life, Vilkas frightened him.  He looked like he had gone mad, his face red in colour with dark purple splotches, eyes bulging and a vein throbbing in his forehead.  He was not interested in Skjor's reasoning, in his explanation of the fact that he had only sought to strengthen the pack by turning another member. 

“You could not have waited until my brother was back before you turned him into the abomination you so revere!?”, the Companion bellowed, uncaring that half of Whiterun would hear him. 

Skjor did not want to touch up on the subject of Farkas and the failure of their rescue, addressing Wulfryk instead, believing the topic to be safe.  Aela would sort out the rogue werewolf; he was inconsequential, after all.  Vilkas might have liked him, but he would get over his crush. 

Their words had grown heated, the argument spinning out of control too fast. 

And it was Vilkas who barked a cruel laugh in between harsh breaths, and sneered “He is the Dragonborn, you fuckwit!”  

“Brother-”, he wanted to take back what he had said, to go back and start anew, but Vilkas would lose his real brother thanks to the turning going bad and the placating word sounded like a mockery, even to Skjor's own ears. 

“You are no shield-brother of mine”, the younger man hissed in answer.  “You are a mad dog, if you can't even follow the rules you helped establish!” 

There was truth in there, somewhere.  They should not have gone behind everybody's back with the turning.  But the whelp had no right!  The last time those very words had been said, it had been the Circle uttering them in unison, banning one of their own for the crimes he had committed.  They cut more sharply than any knife could, but then the big warrior wielded them as he would that sword of his; poised to do as much damage as possible. 

“Go”, Vilkas ordered, and the elder Companion knew immediately that he was not referring to the room.  “Leave before I take a sword to you myself.” 

Skjor fled the room, weary of more blame being flung at him, before things escalated.  The last he saw was Vilkas tearing at the bandages around his arm to see the damage that lay below.  Skjor knew of the wounds he had suffered at the hands of the man whom he had called friend.  Even if they healed, he would never hold a sword again without further magical help. 

He almost missed Kodlak who sat slumped outside, head in his hands. 

“You heard what he said?”, Skjor asked the Harbinger with disbelief and ire at the lad, who would speak to his elder so and make idle threats. 

“It was impossible not to”, Kodlak replied calmly, lifting his head and interlacing his fingers, waiting. 

“I don't know what happened to the whelp when we gifted him with the beastblood, but I did not want for things to turn out this way", Skjor admitted, guilt and shame boiling up inside him. 

“It's _not_ Wulfryk I'm worried about.” 

No, it was Farkas.  Farkas, who was doomed without anybody to get him out of the Silver Hand's clutches. 

But it wasn't their Icebrain Skjor asked about.  “Is it true?  About him being the Dragonborn?” 

“Yes.”  Kodlak nodded his head, looking like he had aged another decade during their brief conversation.  His voice was strong though and his eyes cold when he proclaimed “You better pray the lad comes back to us, or I'll personally send you to the Greybeards to explain to them why their chosen will not come.” 

He sighed heavily and it was his old friend's sorrow that cut at Skjor's heart more than anything Vilkas could fling at him in his rage. 

“I'm very disappointed in you, Skjor.  What you and Aela did was inexcusable.  If something happens to Farkas...”, Kodlak did not elaborate further, saying instead “I can only hope that one day Vilkas will find it in his heart to forgive you.  But I would not count on it”, he finished with a sad shake of his head. 

He asked then, whether they truly intended to throw him out, like they had that murderer Arnbjorn, after all his years of loyal service to the Companions. 

“We have been friends for a long time, but I will not stop him if he decides to follow through”, the Harbinger stated with conviction.  “Not this time.” 

Skjor swallowed past the lump in his throat, nodded curtly and turned away.  Jorrvaskr was his home, it had been for decades.  And now he was no longer welcome here. 

His pack was ready from the day before.  Skjor picked it up.  Had he not promised Farkas' safe return?  The Companion pocketed the map on which the Silver Hand's hideout, Gallows Rock, was marked by a small circle drawn in black ink, wrapping it in oiled leather to protect the precious parchment. 

The note he left for Kodlak was brief.  Fate and Gods willing, he would rescue their beloved shield-brother. 

Unsaid went the apologies, the hope for forgiveness and for redemption. 

 

xxxx

 

Without anything else to do, Farkas idly watched the countryside pass by.  The flat plains gave way to rolling hills which in turn were replaced by thick forests.  He thought that far in the distance he sighted Whiterun's outline once, but that had been several days ago and nothing exciting had happened since.  The going was slow and rather boring and the carriage swayed with the uneven terrain until he found himself lulled into a state of lethargy by the never-ending monotony around him. 

Many a day the Companion spent either drowsing or asleep, curled up into a tight ball of misery under the furs, the only thing that kept the frost at bay.  The Silver Hand had at least given him this much when it had become too cold for even a Nord and they still had to return his clothes, after all.  Somehow, Farkas did not think they would.  A warrior had tossed the pelts at him and the Silver Hand had gathered around his cage to laugh at him when he had grasped at them desperately, gathering the furs around his naked body and cursing his captors at the same time.  For they were wolf pelts, as Farkas recognised by the smell.  He did not want them and he did not want to think about whom they had once belonged to, be it animal or human, but he needed the warmth. 

Farkas was given water whenever he asked for it and food, but not nearly enough to sate his enormous appetite.  And now hunger was gnawing on his insides, a constant emptiness is his guts, a sucking void that never went away.  Before, had not known what it was like, to be slowly starving.  Watching others eat had become a torture of its own.  At first he had thought that he could save energy by lying still and by avoiding all conflicts.  He'd be good now and later, when they let down their guard, he'd have his vengeance.  Farkas had sworn to revenge the death of his friend, to kill the Silver Hand.  All of them, without mercy and without regret.  In fact, he felt a savage glee at the very thought of sinking a blade into his enemies.  Or his claws and teeth, if he could not get his hands on a sword.  He would rip them into pieces and leave them as carrion for the scavengers.  He would go back then, to Dustman's Cairn, to retrieve Wulf's body and give him a proper burial. 

Or, so Farkas had thought. 

Soon though, he had felt his strength weaning and his spirit while not broken, was certainly dampened.  He no longer felt sad or angry or crushing weight of guilt.  Truth be told, he did not feel much of anything anymore. 

Except for the hunger – and the pain.  The cage he was imprisoned in was too small for the big man to stretch out, forcing him to cower uncomfortably.  His muscles became stiff and aching and the need to move drove him almost crazy.  It was burning under his skin, like an itch, but he could not scratch it, no matter how much he tossed and turned. 

As more days passed, the Companion became resigned and whilst he did not accept his fate, he acknowledged that there was nothing he could do to change it. 

Not all things were bad, though, Farkas told himself, trying to hold on to the optimism that he knew many of his shield-siblings admired and few actually understood.  At least his captors had stopped throwing rocks at him.  He scratched at the scab at his temple.  Over the course of the past days he had ripped it open time and time again out of boredom.  Vilkas would have scolded him for sure, were he here, but he wasn't and Farkas missed his brother more than ever. 

He had other things to worry about, though.  One day the carriage came to a stop before the broken remains of what had once been two massive towers, although one had crumbled away and the second one looked to be falling apart.  The shape they were in suggested that the Silver Hand had little interest in doing repair works.  Either they had not been here for long or they did not intend to stay.  At any rate, Farkas knew they had arrived at their destination.  The thought sent a shiver of fear, mixed with revulsion through his body.  But it also kindled a spark of hope.  The Companion's iron prison was firmly bolted to the cart and unless they intended to dismantle the entire carriage, his captors had to open the doors of the cage in order to get him out of it and into their hideout. 

He wasn't going to make it easy for them.  When his meal arrived, Farkas savoured every bite of it.  He imagined that he could feel his strength and vigour returning.  The thought almost made a smile appear on his face, but he suppressed it quickly.  He did not want to give his thoughts away, after all.  The food was gone all too soon and the Companion first licked the bowl clean, then his fingers.  All that remained for him to do was wait.  When the Silver Hand opened the cage, he'd be on them before they knew what was happening.  Changing had not worked out in the Cairn, but here in the woods a werewolf would be more dangerous than ever.  He'd have enough space to run, to hide and attack; the undergrowth would hide him. 

Farkas yawned widely, content with his plan.  His eyes had drifted closed, his head was nodding and with a start he jerked it up.  By the Nine, he was tired all of a sudden.  His limbs had never felt so heavy, so ungainly.  He must have eaten too much, too quickly.  Maybe there was time for him to...what had he been thinking about?  The warrior had forgotten.  His vision was blurring and he felt dizzy.  It was almost like being drunk.  Farkas laughed.  Gods, he yearned for a mug of steaming hot mead.  He should have known better than to drink on the eve of a mission.  Best to sleep it off.  He'd close his eyes, just for a little while.  Then, he'd be as good as new. 

 

Farkas awoke with a start and an unpleasant bolt of pain shot through his stiff neck when he lifted his head.  It was too dark for him to see, but he felt the familiar weight of manacles around his wrists and ankles.  The Companion was sitting slumped against a wall, his legs stretched out in from of him for the first time since his capture.  It felt so good, Farkas groaned and arched his back, stretching until he shook with the tension.  He sank back then and wiped at his chest where a patch of something wet and cold was cooling.  He must have drooled on himself in his stupor. 

“Bastards drugged me”, the warrior slurred to nobody in particular.  His voice echoed through the darkness, loud in the surrounding silence. 

Farkas leaned back and closed his eyes once more.  The drug was still affecting him and he slept the effects off until he was woken by the sound of a conversation not far away.  His head no longer felt like it was stuffed with hay and he could see the faint glint of light coming closer. 

“Think he's awake yet?”, the first voice asked. 

“Don't know.  I gave him enough to knock out a horse, he could be a while coming 'round”, a woman answered. 

They took a turn and came into view, two warriors carrying torches.  In spite of the Companion's bonds and the bars that separated them, their approach was careful and Farkas could smell their unease.  A torch was held close to his face and he had to turn away from the light; it was too bright after the darkness. 

“He's awake, alright”, the woman said and turned to her friend.  “Go, tell the boss.  And send somebody down to help me secure him!”, she shouted at the retreating man's back. 

They didn't speak, Farkas and the woman who nervously tapped her foot while she waited for her comrades.  Two men arrived and pulled on the chains that hung outside the iron bars and were connected to the Companion's shackles.  When they were done, Farkas was standing spread-eagled and unable to move more than an inch to either side.  It was bloody uncomfortable, but at least the construct meant that they did not intend to leave him like this.  Farkas fervently hoped that they wouldn't leave him like this. 

But they did and the only thing they left behind was a torch.  The Companion cursed them with passion, for his arm had begun to itch the exact moment he could no longer scratch it.  To distract himself he looked around, taking in his surroundings now that he could see thanks to the burning torch. 

Gallows Rock was as cheerful a place as its name suggested.  It was a dark, dreary cellar where the air was cold with damp and where moss hung from the walls, forming long green beards. 

The tickling sensation came back and Farkas cast an annoyed glare at his arm, only to see a spider crawling over his elbow.  A shudder passed through him, violent enough to rattle the chains.  It might only be the size of the Companion's thumbnail, but that made the blasted critter no less disgusting.  He began to shake his arm and curse and when he ran out of profanities, he blew on it with all the force he could muster.  At first he thought he might succeed and that the spider would descend on its thread and skitter away into the darkness, but then it climbed back up again to perch atop his elbow once more.  The big warrior felt his hair stand on end and decided that it was better not to look.  Still, the patch where the spider sat felt imprinted on the man's skin and he longed to run his hand over the place and dispatch the crawler. 

Suddenly, Farkas very much felt like laughing.  Things couldn't get much worse than this, of that he was sure. 

He actually felt relieved when he heard more voices.  This time, a whole group of people entered the room and whilst a woman he had not seen before busied herself with making a fire in the cold hearth, the rest looked at him. 

Farkas had once been to a menagerie, when he had been a child and wandering troupes had passed through Whiterun regularly.  There had been acrobats doing tumbles and actors performing plays, music and dances, but there were also exotic animals in cages; colourful birds that sang the most delightful songs and even stranger creatures from lands far away.  There had also been a cow with two heads and he remembered being unable to tear his gaze away from her. 

Farkas felt like that cow with how everybody was staring at him. 

Only the woman paid him no heed until she had a nice blaze going and the room was filled with the sound of the roaring fire and logs splitting.  The smell of smoke began to overlay that of the mould and Farkas felt a wave of gratefulness towards the woman, because even from where he was chained with the chilly wall at his back he could feel the heat.  After so much time spent in the cold it was most welcome. 

Maybe she would be willing to help him.  Wulf had his charm and Vilkas his wits, whilst he had neither, but was nonetheless willing to give it a try. 

“That's better, no?”, she spoke gently and then she turned towards her prisoner.  She was a pretty thing with blonde hair and hazel doe eyes, young but not a girl by any means.  Her body was slender with just enough curves to make things interesting.  ‘Petite’, the Companion's stunned mind supplied.  He realized that he was staring at her bosom and raised his eyes to her face.  Her nose was peppered with freckles.  Farkas adored freckles.  Gods, if he'd met her in a tavern and not in a Silver Hand dungeon he'd totally hit on her. 

She walked up to the Companion and he just could not miss the seductive sway of her hips.  Of all the warriors gathered she seemed to be the only one not afraid to approach him.  Confident in the strength of the chains she unlocked the door of his cell and stepped inside. 

“You've got something here”, she remarked and reached out to his arm, the tip of her tongue visible in the corner of her mouth. 

When she retracted her gloved hand, the spider hung from between her thumb and forefinger by one leg.  She walked up to the torch and held her hand close to the fire, the gauntlet protecting her skin.  There was a sizzling sound and a pop and the spider was no more. 

“Spiders”, the lass said with an apologetic smile directed at Farkas.  “They're all over the place.” 

She looked back over her shoulder, raised an eyebrow at her companions and commanded “Leave us.” 

“Are you sure that's a good idea?”, one of  her cronies enquired, worry etched all over his face.  “This one's killed at last –”

“Beirn”, the woman interrupted him without bothering to raise her voice.  “I said: get out!” 

“Yes, Krev.”  The warrior bowed his head, took a step back and the Silver Hand warriors left without lingering for but a moment longer. 

Farkas felt his stomach turn over.  He knew who she was now, had heard the tales of torture and cruelty that went with the name of Krev the Skinner.  And he had her undivided attention now.  Farkas suddenly wished he could go back to being alone with the spider. 

“So”, blonde woman drawled “Big, dark hair and grey-blue eyes.  You can only be Farkas.  Or Vilkas”, she mused with the smallest of frowns and a slight pursing of her lips.  “Tell me, which one are you – Brawns or Brains?” 

“I'm Vilkas”, Farkas answered without hesitating.  Unkempt, unwashed and with a full beard he could easily pass for his twin.  Few people would know them apart in this state by looks alone.  He was not sure why he lied about his identity.  Maybe if he imagined that his brother was with him, Farkas would find strength to last through what would surely come. 

He knew what she did to her prisoners, knew of the fate that awaited him.  But even at this time he was glad that it was him, and not his brother whom he now pretended to be. 

“Are you?”  Krev did not seem convinced.  “Interesting.”  According to her tone it was anything but.  She fiddled with her gloves, pulling them off and caressing the metal reinforcing them.  “They say your brother is a halfwit”, she prompted, lifting her eyes back into his and when Farkas failed to react except for baring his teeth she added “You, on the other hand are rumoured to be quite savvy.”

They regarded each other for a moment, Krev tapping a finger against her chin.  “I am sure you can tell me between whom the White-Gold Concordat was struck and what the eight main terms are”, she asked with an air of nonchalance. 

Farkas' heart began to hammer in his chest.  He did not understand his sudden urge to keep his identity a secret, but he felt like it was the key to staying alive, to not let her see through the ruse. It was an easy question.  Vilkas could have answered it in his sleep, of that he was sure.  They had learned about the treaty from Vignar, but the only thing Farkas could recall was that it had ended the Great War and outlawed the worship of Talos. 

He might not know the answer, but he did know his brother.  Better than anybody. 

“I could tell you”, Farkas sneered, doing his best to twist his features into the arrogant look he had so often seen on his twin's face, whenever Vilkas was dealing with someone whom he believed to be beneath him.  “But I am loath to explain the finer points of political machinations to an ignorant wench who dwells in -” 

The glove struck his face with surprising strength, whipping his head to the side.  A metal part ripped open his lower lip and Farkas felt the blood trickle down his chin. 

“A smartass.”  Surprisingly, Krev sounded excited.  “Are you really Vilkas?  Gods, your brother must be a brute then”, the woman chuckled, rubbing her hands.  It was highly disconcerting. 

“I _am_ Vilkas”, Farkas growled, wishing she would go up in flames from the hatred in his gaze.  “And you will rue the day you messed with the Companions, bitch.”  

She laughed at him, shaking her head like it was the best joke she had heard in a long time, like they were old friends trading tales.  It was an altogether pleasant sound, light and merry with just the slightest throatiness.  “I am not the dog here, Vilkas”, Krev replied without apparent rancour, drawing out the name and caressing it in a fashion that was almost intimate. 

She turned away once more, missing the look of disgust on the face of her prisoner and walked towards the door, ringing a bell that was mounted there. 

Farkas licked the blood from the cut on his lip, worrying at the wound with his teeth until the sting became unpleasant and he let it be.  Krev had stopped paying him any attention and he could breathe more easily now.  There was something about her...something beautiful and seductive and terribly cruel.  It scared him. 

Meanwhile, another Silver Hand appeared and brought parchment, ink and a quill that he handed to his leader and beat a hasty retreat.  It appeared that nobody was at ease around the Skinner.  Krev ignored everything around her and took a seat at a small table close to the fireplace.  She began to write, the shrill scratching of the quill grating on Farkas' nerves, making him grit his teeth.  It took a long while, but at last the woman finished writing, dusted the single page and put the cork back into the inkwell. 

There was a spring to her step when she sauntered back to the Companion.  “Here”, she offered, holding up the page slightly below his eye-level.  “Read.” 

He did, curious as to why she would show him.  It was a letter.  A ransom, written by some imaginary bandit and addressed to – to him; Farkas of the Companions, warrior of Jorrvaskr.  It instructed him to come alone and bring an outrageous amount of money and his brother Vilkas would be set free.  If he failed to meet those terms, his brother would die a slow, painful death. 

Farkas felt his heartbeat pick up.  It was a trap.  It was a trap meant for his twin. 

“Having difficulties, are you?”, Krev enquired coldly when the reading took him too long. 

‘I am Vilkas’, Farkas thought and retorted “Your penmanship is abominable.”  He even scrunched up his nose to perfect the act.  “I've seen mice drop better spelling.” 

Through the shock, Farkas could not help but feel slightly insulted.  While not the brightest – _oh, so that's what Wulf's nickname meant_ \- he was not _that_ stupid.  Vilkas would certainly never fall for the ruse, even if it had not been addressed to the wrong twin.  He'd know that something was afoot – and he'd still come and investigate. 

“This won't work”, the Companion rasped, licking his split lip anxiously.  If she sent that letter...it could not be.  He had to stop her, somehow. 

“Why not?”  Krev's tone was conversational, her head thrown slightly back so she could look up, into his eyes. 

“He will not believe it.” 

Farkas knew he had lost when a smile slowly spread across that flawless face.  “Ah, but you see, he doesn't have to believe it.”  It was true.  “You have been gone a long time, I am sure your twin dog miss you.  If your brother _loves_ you, he will come.”  Out of her mouth, the word ‘love’ sounded like mockery. 

Krev pulled a small, but wicked looking dagger and Farkas flinched back involuntarily.  The cold metal of the weapon ghosted over his bare chest and up, across his throat.  The Companion swallowed and felt the first wave of panic rise; if she applied just a little more pressure, he'd be drowning in his own blood. 

His head was pressed against the wall and there was nowhere he could escape.  It truly sank in, then, that he was utterly at the mercy of a crazy torturer who got her kicks out of flaying people.  Farkas' heart was pounding in his chest with that knowledge, and beads of sweat began to form on his skin, a few drops running from his armpits and down his sides. 

He was sure she saw it. 

Then, the blade's tip rested against the corner of his eye and he was scrunching his eyes closed and praying to any deity he could think of right on the spot.  Talos, Mara,...please don't let her blind him.  She pressed harder, drawing blood and Farkas' breath hitched, he tried to hold still, but his body betrayed him and he had no control over the tremor that passed through his strong frame. 

“Your precious brother will come”, Krev's voice hissed into his ear suddenly.  “You are a bunch of complacent swine, wallowing in the corrupted filth that is Whiterun.  You have grown predictable and stupid and it will be my pleasure to show the world what you really are.  Have you ever watched a man's skin being peeled off inch by inch?  Have you heard his cries?  Because you will!  And before I am done, you will beg me to kill your brother.” 

The blade was lifted as unexpectedly as it had been drawn and the Companion dared to open his eyes again.  A swift movement of his captor's hand and Farkas believed death had come for him, but only a lock of dark hair was cut from his head that Krev twirled between her fingers before attaching it to the letter.  She closed and locked the prison cell's door behind her. 

Farkas sagged in his bonds, panting like the dog she called him.  He knew that he reeked of fear, he could smell it on himself and hear his own shuddering gasps.  If this was how it was going to be, he would rather have died a warrior's death in Dustman's Cairn, than to endure this helplessness. 

Krev had rung the bell again and was speaking to another woman, ordering her to find a messenger and have the fake letter of ransom delivered to – and only to – Farkas' hands. 

The Companion was left to wonder how he could have ever thought of her as stunning.  She was a monster, as rotten on the inside as she was attractive on the outside. 

She was also wrong.  Farkas would not come to the rescue, because he was here, stuck in this cell without a means of escape.  He would rot here, he would bleed and suffer and he would die here, in this dungeon with his shield-siblings none the wiser.  The realization hurt more than he would have expected it to. 

The letter would never be delivered.  No self-respecting courier would deliver a confidential dispatch into somebody else's hands and violate the privacy of correspondence, not even if that somebody was the recipient's twin brother. 

Nearing footsteps ripped the Companion out of his daze.  Chains rattled and suddenly the bonds holding him in place went slack.  Without their support he sat down on the floor, hard.  Farkas looked up when a shadow loomed over him. 

“I suggest you take your rest now; you are going to need it”, Krev suggested in the same soft voice she had used when she had first spoken, but there was no pity in her gaze and no kindness in her voice. 

She picked up the torch on her way out, though she left the fire burning in the hearth. 

Farkas was not aware of the heat any longer, he felt colder now than he had in any snowstorm.  The only thought that brought any warmth to his heart was that for once he had not been the stupid twin.  He had just saved Vilkas' life.  His brother would never have to undergo the tortures that only a twisted mind could have come up with. 

Instead, it would be him.


	25. BTS

The door to him room was thrown shut with a loud bang, but Vilkas paid neither it nor his leaving shield-brother any heed.  Skjor could stew in Oblivion for all he cared.  The Companion was seething.  He had to hold on to the anger.  It made him go on, gave him strength where his body failed him.  It kept the other emotions at bay.  The incomprehension of what had happened to him, of why Wulf had attacked, and the frustration and despair, because now their carefully crafted plans for his brother's rescue had been shattered.  The shards were all around him and no matter that he grasped after them; there was nobody to save Farkas now.  Nobody but him. 

Vilkas clenched his teeth and undid the last clasps that held the bandages around his arm in place.  He had already shrugged off the sling that had been loped loosely around his neck – the left side, because the right was bandaged as well.  He was not sure what he would find underneath, but he felt a painful throb, timed with the beating of his heart.  It was getting worse by the second, too.  He knew that his arm was broken, probably in more places than one and undoubtedly badly mangled from the werewolf's long teeth and powerful jaws.  It was still attached to his body though, and so he prayed that the damage wasn't too bad. The Companion did not know what he actually would do if he ever lost a limb. 

The linen bandage fell away first, followed by a layer of cotton wool for cushioning and, finally, gauze.  Cold air hit his arm and Vilkas shuddered at the feeling, because his entire hand felt cold and clammy now that the warmth of the bindings was no longer there.  As if the smell that hit him wasn't bad enough, the process also _hurt_.  More than a simple bite should have and he did not dare to look at first.  The Companion was not squeamish, he had seen his share of battle wounds.  It was different, however, when he was the one harmed.  His body was what he needed to work, to be a warrior, and every injury threatened to rob him of that life. 

Vilkas took a deep breath and glanced down – and then he was fighting a battle against throwing up what little soup he had eaten earlier.  He was aware that he was losing against his heaving stomach and quickly leaned out of the bed and retched right on the rug that stood in front of it.  It wasn't much, but the mass stank enough to cover up the reek of raw meat that emanated from the Companion's ruined arm.  The sour tang of vomit perfectly matched the feeling of horror that swept through him.  Now that he had seen the extent of the damage, Vilkas could not tear his eyes away. 

Pieces of gauze stuck to his arm, glued to it by congealed blood and other fluids that seeped from the wounds.  The entire limb was covered in dark violet, almost blackish bruises and only where the raw flesh was uncovered it was red in colour.  A stark contrast to it were the silky black stitches that held together his flesh.  Vilkas' arm was swollen to almost twice its normal size, but far worse was his hand.  He did not even remember the werewolf getting hold of it, but then he had been pumped up on adrenaline and fighting for his life; he had simply not felt anything after his arm had broken. 

Three of his fingers were splintered and his thumb had stitches all around it, looking by all means like it had been sewn back on.  Here the swelling was so bad that his hand resembled a deformed lump of meat more than anything else and in spite of that, Vilkas could see through it in two places, through holes the size of copper coins. 

In an act of desperation, the warrior tried to wriggle his fingers or his wrist – anything – but the tiniest fraction of a motion sent a bolt of agony through his arm that raced up, almost to his shoulder.  Vilkas fell back against the pillows, panting and covered in cold sweat. 

Without anybody telling him he nonetheless knew that he would never hold a sword again.  Not without...magic.  The Companion almost shuddered at the thought, another wave of nausea passing through him, but he also figured that nothing could be worse than... _this_. 

He was reluctant to admit that magic scared him.  Vilkas had read several books on the topic, tried to look at it in a reasonable way, and yet he could not understand magic.  Where it came from.  How it could be shaped by the ones casting it, how that great a power could be used to either heal or destroy and how mages did not confuse the two.  Supposedly, almost every person was capable of casting spells, weak ones, but some races had a special affinity towards it.  That it was the bloody elves did not help Vilkas' disposition one bit. 

But Danica was no elf and he trusted her.  She probably could have healed him, but Vilkas had made his opinions on magic _very_ clear once.  He did not want it performed on him or his brother, unless absolutely necessary.  The traditional way of treating wounds with salves, poultices and catgut were good enough for him.  Danica had respected his wish and though Vilkas had been healed since then, Farkas never had any magic performed on him. 

The Companion knew that they both had been extremely lucky in that regard.  None of them had ever been badly wounded so far.  Grazes, cuts and abrasions they had suffered along with a few broken bones, but nothing life threatening.  Ever. 

Nothing like the ruin of his arm that Vilkas was staring at. 

He needed healing.  A potion would do for now, it would dull the pain and then thinking would be so much easier.  The warrior turned and let his legs hang over the bed's edge, avoiding the pool of vomit, and stood up.  His vision was clouded by spots at once and he lost his balance.  Vilkas fell back, knocked his head against the wall and somehow managed to tilt sideways and land on his injured arm.  He blacked out before he could as much as scream. 

When the Companion's eyes opened again, the entire room was bathed in orange light that came from a setting sun.  Somebody else was sitting on his bed, but he couldn't see who because he was facing the wall.  There was the rapid click of needles and a soft humming and Vilkas slowly rolled on his back, having identified the person next to him. 

A slender hand gently ran through his hair when Tilma realized that he was awake.  “Oh, my dear boy”, the old woman said, voice quivering. 

Vilkas briefly wondered why she sounded so upset.  He was sorry for making her sad and felt very young again all of a sudden.  His vision was fuzzy and there was a strange pressure in his ears. 

“Am I drugged?”, the Companion rasped. 

“Yes, dear.”  Tilma kept stroking his hair until he drifted off again. 

He woke up some indeterminable time later.  The light had changed, it was sharp and harsh and hurt his eyes, but Tilma was still or once more there, knitting.  For a while Vilkas was content to just lie there and doze, but he eventually became jittery as he became conscious of the fact that he had no idea how long he had been asleep.  And he _never_ slept this much, his insomnia just did not allow him to. 

“Did you drug me?”  It was the only explanation he could think of. 

If Tilma was surprised at the sudden question, she did not show it.  “Yes, dear”, she answered with a small smile. 

Vilkas had a vague sense of having heard this before. 

“I've asked already, haven't I?”, he enquired.  His memory was hazy. 

“You have”, Tilma replied with a small chuckle.  “Several times.” 

Huh.  The Companion did not remember any of those.  The thought made him rather uncomfortable.  “What happened?”, he wanted to know, because that was one more thing that he could not recall. 

“You probably know better than we do”, the old lady responded.  “Kodlak found you unconscious when he decided to check on you after your argument with Skjor.” 

“I tried to get up”, Vilkas mumbled remembering suddenly, feeling heat rise to his face and avoiding the topic of Skjor altogether. 

“You shouldn't have”, Tilma scolded him gently.  “You lost over one third of your blood when you were wounded.  By the time Danica arrived, your chest had stopped rising.  Skjor had to breathe life into you”, she told him, quickly followed by “I was worried sick!” 

Vilkas felt a stab of guilt through his gut at the old woman's words.  And he had no idea that the grizzled warrior he had so horribly insulted had actually saved his life.  He had to find him.  But first he had to get healed. 

Tilma saw a shudder pass through the Companion's strong body and hastily asked with all the care of a mother “Are you cold?”  She held something green in front of his face “Here, I made this for you.” 

A woollen vest with short sleeves that he could pull over his head and injured arm without having much difficulty landed in Vilkas' lap.  She must have worked tirelessly to have it finished already.  Or – and here a terrible thought struck the Companion – he had been unconscious for much longer than he had assumed. 

Vilkas shot upright, fright written all over his face. 

Tilma watched his reaction and did not hesitate to rebuke him “Just what do you think you're doing?”, she asked “First ripping your bandages off like that and now -”, she gave him a push that was astonishingly firm for a lady of her age and frail statue “– lie down!” 

“I have to get up”, Vilkas protested, struggling to support himself on his uninjured elbow.  “I have to see Danica.” 

“You are not going anywhere, young man!”  Tilma's tone brooked no argument. 

“I have to help Farkas.”  He wondered how much she had guessed already, but then he absolutely could _not_ tell her the truth.  It was enough that one of them was worried sick. 

“I know, dear.” 

There used to be a time when the twins actually had believed that Tilma knew everything, after all she always knew when they were planning any mischief or when they had done something they shouldn't have. In addition to mastering the skill of reading minds, the old lady possessed eyes at the back of her head, of that Farkas was sure to this day and Vilkas felt half-inclined to agree with his brother.  It was uncanny. 

The Companion did not enquire how much she had found out and how.  “And to do so I need Danica to heal my hand”, he persisted.  It was all that mattered right now. 

“Yes.”  That Tilma did not disagree stunned Vilkas into silence.  “And I'll go get the healers.  You stay here.”  She got up and patted the covers, but quickly added “Don't you dare to leave the bed.” 

It was embarrassing that a woman who called Skjor young was in better shape than he was, but the last time he had tried to get up it hadn't gotten him far, Vilkas had to admit.  Once she was gone though he sat up nonetheless, noticing that the rug he had thrown up on was gone.  He could wait for a while.  Besides, whatever they had used to dull his pain would have to wear off before long and he needed his thoughts to be clear if he was to set out on a rescue mission.  The Companion only hoped that there was a potion that really was capable of setting his arm right. 

He had read as much about alchemy as he had about magic and though the latter was necessary to practice the former, for some reason he trusted the small vials as he did no spellcaster.  To make a healing potion one had to be capable of casting healing spells.  Alchemy was a magical art, not something anybody could lean like herbal lore or field medicine or he would have mastered that particular skill long ago.  The ingredients had to be prepared right and mixed just so, but that was the easy part.  From what Vilkas had learned the alchemist then channelled his magic into the not-yet potion; different blends of ingredients allowed different types of magic to take hold. 

Wulf probably knew more about it.  The Companion wondered why he wasted his thoughts on the man who was responsible for him being in this state and shook his head, frustrated.  Potions were a much safer subject to occupy his mind with. 

The smallest ones required few ingredients and were relatively easy to make.  They accelerated the natural healing process, drawing on the energy of the one who drank it.  Usually they could close fatal wounds to the point where the injured person would not die immediately, but if that person was too weak, they could kill.  Jorrvaskr had enough of those, but soldiers often saved up for months to buy one.  

Funny, that he would remember this tidbit now, when he had not wasted any thoughts on the common people before.  Permanent damage and maiming happened quite often, but usually to others.  The Companions had the means and funds to keep their warriors from suffering such a fate.  The fate that would also be his, were he anybody else, who in time of need could not guzzle healing potions like mead. 

Vilkas felt vaguely sick with the realization.  It seemed that the knock to his head had opened eyes. 

His chances of recovery were quite good, for better potions could cure more severe wounds.  They supplied the one who drank them with their own energy which meant that at some point the alchemist had channelled his own life force into them.  For normal people those were as unaffordable as magical healing.  A great part of Jorrvaskr's income was spent on healing, Vilkas knew that well from being responsible for the ledgers and finances. 

Usually, Danica just used magic to prevent her patients from dying; everything else she patched up manually, like any common medic would.  Being a Nord, her magical powers were limited.  She had to ration them in a way so that they would suffice for everybody. 

The Companion very much hoped that she would be willing to make an exception for him, who unlike most had not considered healing to be a luxury up till now, but something that he could fall back on anytime.  He hung his head, staring at the floor between his feet.  He felt ashamed suddenly for refusing that gift before.

But maybe that way Danica had had more energy for other patients. 

The healer arrived a short while later, while Vilkas was still sitting slumped on the bed and stared dejectedly at the opposite wall. 

“I have come here far too often of late”, she greeted the Companion, but her small smile took most of the sting out of her words. 

She wasn't happy though, that much Vilkas could tell.  He greeted her courteously, but before he could explain why he called on her, Danica spoke up again. 

“I assume you want me to heal your arm.” 

The Companion nodded his head, silent. 

“I’m sorry”, Danica replied, crushing all his hopes.  “I did all I can.  I asked Kynareth for a blessing but it's up to Her whether she grants it.  A mage specializing in Restoration might set your arm right again, but you'd have to visit the College for that.” 

It was not the answer Vilkas had expected.  “Please”, he rasped, feeling dizzy and that had nothing to do with his loss of blood.  “There must be something...” 

“There is”, Danica agreed “Potions we keep for special occasions and people, like the Jarl.  They were made by masters of the trade, arch-mages with decades if not hundreds of years of experience.  There are few of those potions, but my temple possesses two such vials.  I'll have to ask Balgruuf for his consent before I hand one out and since it will have to be replaced, well, let's say it does not come cheaply.”  She sounded apologetic, but also unyielding and Vilkas knew immediately that there was no point in arguing. 

“Name your price.” 

She did and Vilkas swallowed.  He was not what most would call rich, but he was rather well off nonetheless.  In spite of years of saving up the money he got for going on jobs and no real expenses, he did not have _that_ amount of gold.  It was more than Jorrvaskr made in two years.  He'd plunge the Companions into debt. 

‘It's for Farkas’, he thought and agreed with a single nod of his head.  “Done.” 

Danica too inclined her head, her shawl hiding her features as she did so.  “I will see the Jarl straight away”, the priestess said. “Once I have his assent I will have to pull the stitches first or your arm will heal around them.”  With those words she left. 

Tilma came in with a plate of food once the other woman was gone and Vilkas ate more because it gave him something to do than because he was hungry, although he should be. 

“You did the right thing”, the old woman told the Companion, her words making him rise his head. 

“The others might not see it this way.”  Now it was him going behind his shield-siblings' backs.  Divines, but he was sick of it all.  Vilkas wished they could go back to being the way they had been before.  _Before what?_ So many conflicts had never been addressed, had been left to simmer and were never resolved.  Kodlak was there to give advice, but he never did unless asked.  He did not tell anybody how to live their lives.  Maybe he should have.  Things had seemed so much easier before Wulf had come to Jorrvaskr.  All those issues had boiled up after his arrival, the Companion could not think of a single whelp who had caused such a stir. 

Vilkas wondered whether Aela had shot him by now as was the course of action with rogue werewolves and felt another wave of nausea pass through him.  He knew that his wounds were not the dark haired warrior's fault.  He had succumbed to the blood of the beast.  It had been the Companion who had not listened to Aela's shouted warning. 

There wasn't much that could be said right now to cheer him up, but somehow Tilma found just the thing to lift his spirit, if only a little bit.  “And what's some gold in comparison to your brother's life?”, she asked. 

 

Vilkas looked at the tiny, decorative vial in his hand.  It was difficult to believe that such a small thing contained such power. 

“It's for Farkas.”  Only after speaking did Vilkas realize that he had in fact said those words out loud.  Balgruuf had agreed that he should be given the potion and Danica had pulled the stitches and now his wounds were held together by only the bandages wrapped tightly around them. 

The vial's content did not taste like anything when Vilkas downed it in a few gulps, not even like water from a clear mountain spring, but the effects were instantaneous.  The Companion's arm was swathed in a warm golden light and he watched in fascination as the wounds closed and the pain first receded and soon after faded entirely.  The swelling went down, bruises disappearing before his eyes and the holes in his damaged hand filled out. 

A wave of energy coursed through his body.  Vilkas had never experienced anything like this before.  A few seconds before he had been bone weary, and now he was strong as an ox.  He shouldn't be, considering how badly he had been wounded and the length of time he had spent passed out, but just as Danica had assured him, he was _healed_ now.  The Companion gasped when he saw that he did not even have a scar. 

The warrior moved his fingers with great care, but there was no pain this time.  Nothing.  Like the injury had never happened.  The potion had practically undone all the damage and Vilkas admired the results.  He stood up.  There was no weakness this time, no dizziness.  He searched the room for clothes and began to dress.  There was a mission he had to go on.  He had to pack, get a horse or two from Skulvar – thank the gods that they had paid in advance for the animals - and take his leave from Kodlak. 

Vilkas had learned that almost four days had passed since he had been wounded.  Too much time.  Time that slipped away like sand through his fingers.  His heart told him that Farkas was still alive. 

He'd know if his twin was dead.  He'd _know_. 

A knock interrupted the warrior's dark thoughts.  The Companion opened the door, all the other whelps were training in the yard.  Kodlak kept them busy and Vilkas had avoided his shield-siblings.  There were questions he couldn't answer. 

A courier was standing in front of the door, fumbling through a heavy leather bag.  Vilkas did not recognize him and he was familiar with all of Whiterun's messengers.  It wasn't unusual though for strangers to come by, clients from far away often asked for the Companions to help them.  The man's words were very odd though. 

“I have a letter”, the courier stated the obvious “For...Farkas”, he read out and looked at the tall warrior with expectation. 

 _Who in Oblivion wrote a letter to Farkas?_ Farkas, not the Companions.  It hadn't happened before.Something was fishy.  “That's alright, I'll take it”, Vilkas answered cooly, holding out his hand.  “I'm his brother.” 

“I’m afraid I can't do that, sir.”  The courier made to put the letter away.  “I have received very clear instructions that this letter is for Farkas' hands _only_.” 

Vilkas' eyes narrowed with suspicion.  He ripped the letter out of the shocked man's hand before he had had a chance to protest.  

“Hey, you can't just –”, the courier began but fell silent when he saw the look on Vilkas' face.  “Uh...you'll make sure that he gets it, right?”, the man stammered. 

“Right.”  Vilkas shut the door and leaning against it he ripped open the letter, hands shaking. 

A lock of dark brown hair fell out of the envelope.  Vilkas stared at it, the letter's words blurring in front of his eyes. 

 

xxxx

 

“Do we have an explanation why the Thane of Whiterun looks like a hermit who's been living in the woods?”, Wulf asked tiredly, less because he was interested in an actual answer and more to break up Lydia and Aela's bickering.  It was giving him quite a headache and he had put up with it for two days already.  He was tired and grouchy, hungry and cold. 

The effects of his turning into a werewolf had worn off after a day of riding, the horse's swaying gait was probably responsible.  Whatever it was, his side now hurt like hell.  Not the sharp pain of a fresh wound, but rather a deep ache, like somebody had punched him in the guts over and over again.  With a mace. 

He only wished for a moment of peace and quiet, but apparently that was something the gods were not willing to grant him.  Wulf tucked his chin against his chest, looking as miserable as he felt.  One more hour and they would reach Whiterun.  It was a great comfort that a warm meal, a bath and a bed were this close.  Of course, neither Lydia nor Aela seemed to take notice of his words.  He had long ago stopped trying to make out what their argument was about.  Some things womanly that men did not understand.  They had actually spat that at him, the only time when they had not been disagreeing and he hadn't asked since. 

Wulf began to whistle a tune off-key just to drown out the sound of his friends' voices.  ‘Only a little further’, he consoled himself. 

Predictably, the guards were suspicious when they approached the gates.  Two armed women and a man who looked like a beggar certainly were odd travel mates.  “Stop right there”, one guard shouted, soon followed by “Who comes riding?” and “What's your business in Whiterun?” 

“This is the Thane of Whiterun you are speaking to!”, Lydia shouted at him in a strong, but shrill voice that made everybody close to her flinch.  “Show some respect!” 

Wulf waved at the man. 

“And a member of the Circle of the Companions”, Aela muttered, talking more about herself than Wulfryk. 

“My Thane!?”  The soldier's eyes went wide.  He either recognised the rider or the housecarl, but it did not matter which, because he opened the gate to let them in.  His fellow guard though couldn't resist asking “What happened to your clothes?” 

“The werewolf tore them apart”, Wulf lied quickly.  “Gnawed on my boots, too.  Now they have holes on the toes and one is missing the sole; I had to throw them away.  Quite a shame, really.  They were a lovely piece of leatherwork.” 

The guard blinked, looking dazed and nodded his head, probably because he was at a loss for words.  “Did you get the beast?”, he finally enquired in a half-whisper. 

“Of course”, Wulf declared in his most arrogant tone.  “Struck its hideous read right from its shoulders.  I would have taken its pelt as a prize but sadly upon dying they turn back into humans.  And the ugly bastard this one turned into really didn't merit a place on my trophy wall.” 

“You could have brought back the corpse”, the soldier offered slyly. 

“A bear came and ate it”, Wulf snapped at the man in annoyance, not in a mood to trade more words.  “Are you always this nosy?” 

No more questions followed after this and the three warriors continued onwards.  Wulf was not paying much attention to where they were going; by now he was familiar with Whiterun, but that didn't stop him from feeling overwhelmed by the city.  By the Nine, it was _loud_!  And he could _smell_ the people.  Not something that was very pleasant and he could do without it, as well as some other things like the gutter or the fish in one of the market stalls.  But there were other things, the scent of wood and smoke and baked goods, raw meats and a faintly herbal odour that must have come from Arcadia's shop. 

It was fascinating and he'd appreciate it a lot more if the overwhelming intensity and the racket all around him didn't make his head hurt even worse. 

It was no wonder that he overlooked the single warrior heading their way.  The other though noticed them straight away. 

Vilkas stopped and like everybody else he gawked at the two riders and the housecarl, Lydia, accompanying them.  Of the three Aela noticed him first and quickly pointed him out to Wulf.  They halted right there, in the middle of the road and the traffic parted for them like water around rocks. 

“You're alive”, Vilkas said to the other Nord, the words only half of a question.  He had in all honesty believed that he wouldn't see the man again.  He couldn't make much sense of the chaos of emotions that whirled inside him.  There was relief and joy, but mixed with hurt and a feeling of betrayal.  Sadness, because another had gambled his soul away for a power that was not worth it in the least. 

“I think so”, Wulf replied, uncomfortably.  Aela had claimed that he'd almost ripped off the Companion's arm, but Vilkas seemed to be fine.  He was carrying packs, full armour and his sword.  “I'm sorry”, he apologized.  “Aela told me what I'd done.  I – I don't remember any of it.”  It was lame as apologies went and he knew it, but at the moment he couldn't feel sorry for anybody but himself. 

“You bloody idiot!”, the big warrior growled.  He was still reeling from this encounter.  “Do you know what you've done!? _Why, oh why did he care what the guy did with his soul?  It was none of his business.  It drove him mad._

“I know.”  Wulf didn't sound half as upset as the situation warranted. 

“Why?”  _Why would anybody choose this cursed existence?_  

“Because it seemed like a good idea at the time”, Wulf admitted with a shrug. 

“You're going somewhere”, Aela remarked, quickly ending their talk. 

“I'm going to Gallow's Rock.” 

“Alone?”, the Huntress enquired with disbelief.  “Where is Skjor?” 

“He has taken off several days ago”, Vilkas responded, not looking her in the eye and she knew there was more to it than he let on.  “I don't know where to.” 

The Companion pulled out something out of the breast pocket of his mantle.  “This arrived today”, he said, suddenly sounding hoarse.  It was a letter of ransom and attached to it was a lock of dark hair. 

“At least it means that Farkas is alive, if they mean to use him as bait”, Aela said with misplaced optimism. 

Wulf winced, but Vilkas beat him to the answer.  “It doesn't mean anything!”, the Companion cried with anguish.  “Only that they have had gotten hold of some of my brother's hair at some time!  He could be -” 

He never finished the sentence, but instead he muttered “I need to get there as fast as possible”, running a hand over his face. 

“If we're to travel swiftly we'll need spare horses.”  Aela disliked the prospect of any more riding, but it was unavoidable.  She could run fast and far as a wolf, but the transformations did not last long enough and even if they did she doubted she could outdistance a horse.  Not for a second did she hesitate in joining her shield-brother. 

“Jorrvaskr is broke”, the Companion admitted.  “We can't afford horses.”  There.  It was out.  

“What?  How can that be?” 

Vilkas told her.  No more lies.  No more secrets.  They had done too much harm already. 

“You used all our money to have your arm healed!?” 

“I did it so I could help Farkas.”  He dared her to say otherwise.  It was Aela who looked away first. 

“So what do we do now?”, the Huntress wanted to know. 

“Actually.”  Wulf thought it was high time for his input.  “I've got gold”, he said.  “Enough to buy horses.  It's in Jorrvaskr though.  Give me a bit and I'll be ready.  You're _not_ going alone”, he told Vilkas and kicked his horse into motion, riding past the stunned Companion.  Lydia followed her Thane, not having said a word since entering Whiterun. 

Once they were far enough away that not even the ears of a werewolf could pick up their talk, Vilkas turned to Aela.  “You didn't kill him”, he stated, indicating Wulfryk with his chin.  The Circle's protocol dictated that wild wolves should be put down.  He had not expected the Huntress to break the rules. 

“Wulf's a friend”, she replied.  “And before you say it, yes, it's partly my fault.  Can we argue later?” 

Vilkas gave a stiff nod.  He was loathe to admit it, but a huge weight lifted off his shoulders.  Four had a decidedly better chance than one.  “Hang on, Farkas”, he thought.  Help was _finally_ coming. 

 

xxxx

 

Roughly an hour later they were ready to leave, this time for real. 

Wulf was quite unhappy because his armour had holes in it, but there was no time to repair it and so he left it the way it was.  The lamellar plates of his mail usually did a fine job of stopping arrows, all but the needle bodkins fired from a powerful bow.  He had tested it by shooting at it – part of the reason why the forging had taken so long. 

One plate must have had some weakness though and that Silver Hand archer had had more luck than skill in hitting it.  Maybe it was time to consider having a matching set made of Skyforge Steel.  Wulf had the money.  Come to think of it, the leather cuirass wasn't in pristine condition, either. 

Also, he was not getting the bed he had been dreaming of, though as always there was food in Jorrvaskr and he even managed to squeeze in a brief bath in cold water.  And he was wearing clothes again which was a huge improvement over how things had been before. 

Upstairs, he could hear Vilkas and Kodlak talking silently.  He shouldn't be able to make out a single word, but he did.  Wulf wondered how many 'private' conversations the other members of the Circle had listened to 'by accident'.  A most useful trait, that hearing. 

If only everything wasn't so loud! 

Sighing, the Nord ascended the steps to the main room.  He met Lydia there who had been outfitted with the Companions' own things, after she confessed that she couldn't return to the barracks and why.  Wulf sank in a chair next to her, glad that for once she was not chatting away.  It allowed him to listen in on the conversation his fellow warriors had with the Harbinger. 

“I should not have said those things.”  Vilkas hung his head in shame.  He had always respected his elders.  Always.  “I don't know what came over me”, he moaned.  It had been a madness, a sickness of the mind.  It had been the anger, the beast.  He no longer knew which one he was speaking of, but it did not matter. 

Aela was raging when Kodlak told them that Skjor had left to save Farkas single-handedly, shouting “You let him!?”

“I did not know his intentions, Aela”, Kodlak sighed and continued “Or I would have tried to discourage him from such foolishness.  Unfortunately, I found out once he was already gone.  Skjor left a note”, the Harbinger explained.  Wulf noticed the sideways glance the old man shot at Vilkas, who was busy looking away. 

“He felt guilty for Wulfryk's transformation going wrong, which resulted in Vilkas being hurt.  Quite badly, I might add”, he put in with a piercing look. “I believe he wanted to set things right again.” 

Vilkas swallowed visibly, but then his features hardened and he got up, his intentions clear. 

“You go now”, Kodlak urged, not wanting to hold them back longer “And may the gods be with you.” 

Tilma had come upstairs to see them off as well, though almost all her words were for Vilkas.  “Just be careful”, the old woman implored, a hand on the big warrior's cheek.  “I do not want to lose the two of you.” 

They left almost immediately after, heading for the stables where Skulvar had readied their eight horses and Wulf mounted the black steed he had stolen in Helgen once more, for first time since Andel had escaped the Western Watchtower on its back. 

They stayed silent as they set out, except for Lydia asking once “My Thane, are you feeling unwell?” 

Wulf grunted in answer.  He was sore, but he'd be damned if he lagged behind.  Farkas was his friend and that was all there was to it.  “I'll be fine, Lydia”, he answered.  “Just...shut up?  Please?  My head feels like it's going to explode.” 

Nobody said a word after that, everybody lost in his own thoughts. 

 

xxxx

 

That night, long after everybody else had gone to sleep, Kodlak was sitting upstairs, thinking. 

So many things had gone wrong lately.  He had not even noticed when they had begun to drift off the right path, but maybe that was because it was something that had built up over the past few years.  It still made him wonder whether he was still fit to be the Harbinger.  He should have seen it coming, the trap, the Silver Hand's plans, Aela and Skjor's deceit. 

On their own those things would have been manageable, but now that they had to face all together the chances of something going wrong were just too high. 

They had become too lazy.  Content.  Careless.  But Kodlak no longer had the energy to push them onwards.  Skjor had, but lately he had preferred to run wild in his beast form than to invest in training, either his own or that of the whelps.  

The Companions were the best warriors and because of that there was no more challenge.  They went up against bandits badly equipped and barely trained and they brawled when somebody wanted an offender put in place.  None of the Circle members strove for more.  It had been too long since they had faced real danger, dealt with a crisis. 

It was part of the reason why Kodlak had been so quick to accept Wulfryk into Jorrvaskr.  That and the fact that the man was somehow linked to the cure he was trying to find.  His dream had not revealed anything beyond that the mercenary had to become a Companion.  It was meant to be. 

Back when he had been young, Kodlak had worked as a bodyguard in Hammerfell himself.  Wulf had been a swordsman for hire, both as a guard for caravans and people.  And probably a paid blade when somebody needed dirty business done quickly and quietly. 

Kodlak knew a killer when he saw one. 

He didn't judge the lad.  He knew what it was like, trying to survive in a foreign country, all on his own.  He had done some things that he was not proud of, but it was difficult to feel regret over actions that had kept him clad and fed.  Aela, Vilkas and Farkas had grown up inside Jorrvaskr.  In a way, they were just pups. 

The Companions needed somebody worldly in their ranks more than they needed just a skilled fighter.  Somebody who would not shy away to lie and cheat to achieve his goal, somebody to whom honour was not carved in stone, but more of a guideline: quickly disposed of if necessary. 

Not because Kodlak didn't believe in it, he did with all his heart, and knew that without their code they were no more than common thugs.  Sometimes the lines began to blur.  No, it was because their enemies would not shy away from underhanded actions and dirty tricks and somebody had to stop them. 

Wulf did not intend to harm the Companions, that the Harbinger knew or he would have refused his testing, but he was efficient and cold-blooded and not blinded by ugly truths or hindered by morale.  The Companions would need him to live through this crisis.  He was capable of opening the others' eyes, his utter lack of diplomacy and tact might serve where the Harbinger's gentle, guiding advice and wisdom fell on deaf ears lately. 

Vilkas was going to need all the help he could get, and sooner rather than later. 

Kodlak knew that he was dying slowly, old age and some untreatable disease eating away at him.  Skjor was a fierce warrior and had served in the Legion, but he was only a few years younger than Kodlak himself.  That still made him old in everybody but Tilma's eyes. 

The Harbinger feared for the future of the Companions.  As much as he would have liked to believe that they would be safe in Vilkas' hands, the lad was just so young.  ‘He's not a boy anymore’, the Harbinger had often told himself ‘But a man grown.  He will manage.’  After all, Kodlak had done everything possible to groom the warrior for leadership.  

Now though there was no telling what would happen if Farkas did not make it out of the Silver Hand lair alive.  His twin would fall to pieces and who would guide Jorrvaskr's warriors then? 

 

Kodlak's thoughts were interrupted when somebody rapped on Jorrvaskr's front door.  ‘Quite late for that’, the Harbinger thought and frowned.  It was close to midnight and at this time of night the streets usually were deserted and decent folks were at home.  He briefly considered ignoring the incident and going to his room, but then he heard the plea. 

“Please!”, whoever was outside cried, knocking on the wood again.  “Please, I need your help.” 

Jorrvaskr was always open to those who needed the Companions' service.  And it wasn't the first time that somebody arrived at an odd hour.  A kidnapping that could not wait or some other misfortune must have befallen this poor soul.  It would be dishonourable to turn him away, just because he did not want to deal with late-night visitors. 

 “One moment”, Kodlak called back.  Whoever was out had probably seen the light from his candle and known that a Companion was still up.  The Harbinger rocked back and forth, gathering momentum and stood up, clenching the armrests of his chair until he was sure that he was not going to fall over and cursing this frail body that his fiery soul was trapped in.  Slowly he shuffled to the door, slid the bolts to the side and opened it wide to see who was outside. 

“Now what is the meaning of this?”, Kodlak enquired, not unkindly, but there was a note of authority in his voice.  A tall man threw back the cowl of his cloak to reveal fiery red hair and a face so heavily freckled, it appeared red as well. 

‘A Cloak?  It wasn't very cold or raining...Why didn't he carry a torch?  It was quite dark outside’ – those thoughts shot though the Harbinger's mind quicker than one of Aela's arrows. 

“Hi.”  The foreign Nord grinned.  Behind him, there were the shadows of other people moving closer. 

Kodlak's training kicked in a second too late.  Slow.  He had gotten slow in his old age and could only gasp softly when a sword was buried in his chest right to the crossguard.  All air had escaped his lungs and there was none left for him to scream at the sudden, dreadful cold that gripped him.  He could only weakly clutch at the hands of his assailant, which were firmly wrapped around the hilt. 

Warm.  They were warm and dry and one of them pushed at him, almost gently. 

Slowly the Harbinger of the Companions began to fall backwards, sliding off the blade and feeling every inch of it as it passed through his body.  He hit the ground hard, limp and unable to draw breath, shock muting the pain, but still there was this terrible numbness.  Kodlak's eyes were open and he saw everything that followed. 

“There.”  The redhead sounded almost cheerful.  He did not clean or sheathe his sword, sketching a half-bow instead, his hand stretched out towards the main room in an inviting fashion.  “Ladies first.”

A woman clad in armour stepped over the Harbinger's prone body, followed by three more warriors.  They drew their weapons and quietly descended the steps, followed by the redheaded stranger who first closed the door without any apparent hurry. 

They had come here. 

The Silver Hand was attacking Jorrvaskr and every single warrior was asleep.  Kodlak tried to shout, to warn his shield-siblings, but all he managed was a wet gurgle and a hissing sound that escaped from the hole in his lungs. 

The last thing he heard before the cold swallowed him whole was an ear-splitting, agonized shriek.  ‘Tilma’, he thought.  Sweet old Tilma who had always been there, who had taken care of them for decades and was now dead or dying. 

And the pups.  Mara have mercy, the pups. 

How had it come to this? 


	26. BTS

Light in a dungeon should be a source of comfort, of warmth – a beacon of hope amidst all the darkness.  Instead, the Silver Hand had stripped it of all its heartening qualities and its purity, their sadistic minds turning it into yet another method to torture him. 

Farkas twisted away from the flickering, fiery fingers that reached for him, stretching thin in one moment and receding in the other, but he never could escape them entirely.  No matter which corner he faced, there was a torch at each and every one and he had turned around many times, one circle after another in his desire to escape the light. 

In the end, the only dark space was the one his body provided when he curled up.  He normally wouldn't mind the torches, but then these were not for his benefit but for the jailor who was watching him.  Sometimes it was a man, sometimes a woman, it did not matter and the faces began to blend together after a while. 

The Companion had thought about an Imperial merchant the Companions had rescued from a group of bandits holding her hostage for ransom.  The woman's caravan had been robbed, her guards killed, but she had successfully talked the bandits into letting her live and request ransom from her family.  She had been lucky in regard to her relatives being wealthy enough to hire the Companions to take this delicate matter off their hands.  But the merchant had survived because of her clever tongue and other services she had provided the outlaws with.  Farkas, being amongst the rescuers, remembered admiring her for her strength, for though she had been badly shaken when she recounted all she had been forced to endure, in true Imperial fashion she had retained her dignity even then. 

So he took her as an example and tried to strike up a conversation with his captors, get them to like him because supposedly that would make it more difficult for them to kill him. It almost went without saying that he failed miserably.  After all, though Farkas pretended to be him, he possessed none of his brother's wits - or even half of Wulf's charm.  And nobody was going to believe him if he offered to, say, massage shoulders. 

He might have been able to bring one around– a warrior had looked at him with pity, but after two forenoons spent talking to him, he had not seen the man again.  Most of the other members of the Silver Hand were either indifferent to his fate or outright hostile; though some did not seem to be unkind people in general and were maybe even sympathetic, the fear of Krev was keeping them in line and Farkas' laughable efforts did not sway them in the least. 

If he had had a chance at this, he had blown it days ago.  Now, Farkas couldn't scrape together two coherent thoughts.  His heart was beating too fast, his mouth was too dry.  He had trouble breathing. 

If only he could close his eyes, only for a few minutes it would all go away.  But he couldn't close them, could not rest without his captors poking him awake with a stick, over and over and over again.  That was why they wouldn't put out the torches, so that they could watch him at all times.  To make sure he was not getting any rest.  It had gone on for...the gods only knew how long.  The deprivation would lower his defences and rob him of the last shreds of strength that the hunger had not yet taken.  The Silver Hand meant to break him, Farkas knew. 

Slowly but undeniably they were succeeding and after days without sleep Farkas felt close to coming apart entirely.  He would either suffer a breakdown or go crazy.  Either way was fine with him by now. 

In a flash the Companion thought that he was never going to tease his brother again for having trouble falling asleep.  But in the next moment he realized that he probably never would see Vilkas again.  The thought of his brother no longer brought the solace it once had and Farkas hated that the Silver Hand might just rob him of the last thing he had: his love of his family. 

The warrior shook his head.  He could not allow himself to think like that.  The very reason he pretended to be Vilkas was to keep his twin from rushing into the trap.  It was difficult to remember this of late. 

He sometimes thought he could hear them – when everything was silent except for the crackling of the fire, Farkas imagined that he perceived the faint clicking of needles.  Tilma had always loved to knit whenever she wasn't cooking or cleaning.  She had used to make clothes for him and Vilkas and later complained when they grew out of them faster than she could keep up. 

There was also the soft rustle of pages being turned and Farkas knew that his brother was sitting in his favourite spot on the porch and reading.  Maybe he was working over Jorrvaskr's ledgers.  He would always frown when doing so and there would be ink stains on his fingers and sometimes his face when he wiped the sweat off his brow without making sure his hand was clean.  Farkas never told him whenever that happened, a small thing that suddenly made him feel like a traitor and his eyes sting.  He didn't mean any harm by it!  But his brother was always so serious and seeing him with a dark smudge across his nose never failed to make the big warrior chuckle and Vilkas would never know why, his scowl deepening until his twin pulled him away from the books and into the training ring for a quick spar. 

With his eyes shut Farkas could see and smell it; Jorrvaskr's courtyard.  Dust hung in the air whenever a blade struck the practice dummies and straw would emerge from rips in the seams.  The air blurred over sun-warmed stone and –

Something struck the Companion's shoulder painfully.  Had a sword slipped past his guard?  The sensation came back and gradually the dream Farkas had almost fallen into receded and vanished.  He wasn't in Jorrvaskr on a sunny day, but underground locked in a cell at the whim of an infamous torturer. 

The Silver Hand hit him again.  They would not stop, not until they knew he was awake.  He had tried to be patient and outlast them, but by now he knew it was pointless.  Farkas raised his head and snarled at the man.  No, it was a woman this time.  It mattered little and he cared less. 

He would die a happy man if he could take that pole and shove it so far down his jailor's throat it would come out on the other side.  _Like a pig on a roast._  

The thought was strangely appealing and the Companion relaxed marginally when the warrior retreated again. 

He did not bother hiding that he was hanging on to the last shreds of his sanity.  A day ago, it must have been, but it might have been two or three, they had finally managed to break through.  He had lost it back then, barely able to keep his eyes open, yet mad at the constant prodding and with a roar of rage he had gone after whoever was keeping him from his much-needed sleep. 

The change had over him uninvited and completely beyond his control.  Farkas came back to sanity, growling and snarling and biting at the bars of his prison until his mouth filled with the taste of blood.  For a time he had been nothing more than a mindless beast with ears flatted against his head and raised hackles.  The Silver hand had retreated fast enough and got away with nothing more than a few shallow gashes where the very tips of Farkas' claws had raked across his thigh.  There had been fear in the Silver Hand warrior's eyes and something else.  Something it had taken Farkas a while to identify.  It was triumph.  Whatever they were trying to achieve, they were coming close. 

The incident had scared the Companion badly enough to keep him from changing another time.  He had never been troubled by the beastblood, not like Vilkas or Kodlak.  He had never relished in it either, like Aela or Skjor.  He was at peace with the wolf, its animal urges tying well with those of the simple man he was.  He had always had all the food he could eat and enough willing women to bed and whenever his blood began to boil there was a job that would let him vent his rage against wild beasts, bandits or some other form of lowlifes.  His fighting was not devoid of style and skill, but he wielded his sword with a wild savagery that probably derived more from his Nord blood and his people's love of battle than anything else.

The big warrior seldom felt anything for his targets.  What they did was not right, but that was no reason to hate them, he did not know them after all, or what had driven them to the lives they now led.  Often as not they had his pity, if not his mercy, except for that of a quick death. 

But the Silver Hand...Farkas loathed the Silver Hand.  It was intimidating, the amount of hatred accumulated inside his body.  Surely he would burst with it, all that rage ripping him asunder until there was nothing left but tiny shreds. 

Thinking back, the first day in his new prison had not been so bad.  He had been brought food and water aplenty and a bucket to relieve himself in.  After Krev's brief but memorable visit he had inspected the bars and his shackles, but he could find no weak spots.  By now he had learned that his captors were not taking any chances.

The Companion's only consolation was that Krev stayed away, probably busy lavishing her attentions on some other poor soul.  She had not touched him after that first day and seldom visited her prize captive except to observe him with a critical eye, as a buyer would a horse.  _Or a cook a piece of meat_.  Farkas sill had enough wits about him to downplay his condition, though he was not sure whether she actually fell for it.  _Why he was prolonging his suffering anyway?_   Mayhaps it was out of some foolish hope that lingered on, blind to the situation he was in. 

Farkas turned to lie on his other side.  Any position was uncomfortable, really, but he had to relieve the ache every now and then, though it always came back.  At least he could stretch out.  It was the small things the big warrior clung to.  Thankfully, he was spared any further delusions about his home and his shield-siblings.  They hurt more when they were disrupted than the reality did.  Instead, he listened to his laboured breathing and tried to calm his racing heart.  Five miles of running across the planes and he never had the pulse he had now.  It made his head spin and his empty stomach churned, giving him cramps. 

But that was nothing new.  He would push through.  He always had, so far. 

An indeterminable amount of time later, Farkas guessed it was an hour or two, his ears picked up footsteps.  Probably nothing more than a change of his watcher.  He lowered his head again, dismissing the new arrival. 

But it did not turn out to be just anybody.  None other than Krev the Skinner stood in the doorway, holding a tray of - something. 

It was the smell that roused the Companion, made him look up and regret it seconds after.  If there was one person he did not want to see, it was _her_.  But he could smell food; delicious meat and gravy; pheasant it had to be.  And freshly baked bread.  Saliva flooded his mouth and he might have groaned or whined, he was not sure which or whether he had made a noise at all.  His captor's behaviour did not tell him, either. 

Krev just stood there, looking like little more than a girl compared to the warrior woman that had watched Farkas until now and smiled in a way that with any other person and in a different situation would be called benevolent.  She lifted a cloth from the tray to reveal two bowls and a mug. 

When she dragged over a stool to sit upon, the Companion fully expected her to eat in front of him, or maybe to throw the food away, just outside of his cage and watch his reaction, like the others had done.  But no, the Silver Hand approached Farkas' prison without hesitation, stopping a few feet away.  By now Farkas had learned the procedure.  He always had to reach through the bars; his captors were clever enough not to come within the reach of his arms.  The warrior's hands had a tremor, he had gotten the shakes some time ago, but for once he did not notice, his entire concentration fixed on the food as he grasped for it. 

Every second now she would pull away and laugh and then –then Farkas' hands closed around the hot bowl and he jerked them back quickly.  Nobody would take it away from him now.  He almost cried when he saw the contents; stripes of meat over boiled potatoes swimming in gravy.  The second bowl contained mashed beetroot and a slice of bread he could soak in the gravy and the entire meal was accompanied by a mug of mead. 

He was grateful beyond words, moved to tears by the kindness from the very person who was responsible for him being here at all.  It showed just how wretched he really was and that was a feeling Farkas did not want to examine too closely. 

It turned out to be the most delicious food the Companion could remember eating.  He wanted nothing more than to rip into it, but his brother's voice stopped him from gorging himself, telling him he would only make himself sick.  Farkas had always done what his twin told him.  Now was no different, even if the instructions came from his own head. 

He ate slowly, savouring every bite, leaving the meat for the end and wiping the bowls clean with the bread afterwards and licking his fingers.  Farkas did not remember ever showing such restraint before, but then he had never known what hunger really was.  The meal was gone all too soon, but for once the emptiness in his stomach was filled and he felt stuffed.  It was difficult for him to believe that after a busy day back home he could have easily wolfed down three to four times the amount of food and have room enough in his belly for desert.

The Companion sipped the mead that was little more than alcoholic swill with a slight honey taste, but he cradled the precious mug in his hands, determined to make it last. 

“Why?”, he asked after a while, in between nips, his voice hoarse as he wiped the dampness from his face. 

Krev gave him a broad grin.  “Because, today we celebrate”, she told her captive. 

Her words did not bode well and they gave the Companion pause.  He did not have the energy to worry over them though and watched the Silver Hand collect the dishes he had pushed outside.  Exhaustion and a full belly caused him to fall into a kind of stupor – or maybe it was the mead. 

Krev left the room and Farkas breathed easier when she was gone.  Not until he heard more footsteps did he look up again, having stared into the depths of his mug before, lids drooping. 

There were many this time and heavy, those of men in armour.  His heightened senses made the distinction easy. 

When the doors opened again the Silver Hand dragged something – _somebody_ Farkas realized with a pang of horror - in.  When the werewolf hunters’ other victim looked up, the Companion did a double take, believing he was hallucinating again. 

Skjor was shacked to the wall, much like he himself had been.  His armour was gone and he had been beaten up badly, blood on one side of his face and one eye swollen shut.  He groaned softly, not fully conscious. 

So that's what they were celebrating.  Farkas swallowed the bile that had risen to his throat. 

“You see?”, Krev pointed out, completely unnecessarily.  “A week ago I haven't had a single of you - and now?”  She let the words hang in the air briefly for effect before finishing.  “Soon, I will have all of you.” 

That's why she was so pleased with herself.  The Companion should have known that her happiness was the herald of some truly terrible news.  And yet he could not stop the treacherous thought ‘ _Thank the Divines, it's not Vilkas’._

“I had a feast prepared in your welcome”, Krev kept talking to her new prisoner, who was slowly coming to his senses.  “But I’m afraid your friend ate your half as well.”  She indicated Farkas with her chin and a smirk, who felt a wave of cold anger pass through him. 

He had not known the food was intended for Skjor as well! 

The older Companion raised his head slowly and looked at Farkas, something indeterminable burning in his gaze.  Farkas looked away. 

“Well, since I have other important business to attend to I won't intrude upon your reunion any longer”, Krev reminded them of her presence and sashayed out of the room with a spring in her step befitting a victor.  She had won, after all. 

“I’m sorry, pup.”  Defeat and sorrow rang in the quiet words and ripped Farkas' gaze from the door and forced him to face the other man. 

Skjor had nothing to be sorry about.  He shouldn't even be here!  “Why are you here?”  Farkas could not believe he was having this conversation.  “Where are the others?”  Companions never went on missions alone.  He did not understand. 

Skjor barked out a grating laugh that sounded anything but what a laugh was supposed to sound like and spat bloody phlegm on the floor.  He was missing some teeth, Farkas noticed and felt anger well up in his chest, accompanied by a terrible feeling of helplessness. 

“Nobody's coming”, the former Legionnaire rasped.  “Except for that... _saurr fúl gast í guð-døma hora_!!”, he bellowed, his voice echoing through the dungeon. 

Farkas cringed and shrank back.  He had never, ever heard words the like from Skjor's mouth.  Tilma would have thrown a fit worse than a berserker Orc at such language being used within her earshot. 

“I made a mistake in Dustman's Cairn”, the Companion mumbled after a few moments of silence.  He should have listened to Wulf back then, but he had thought he could take his enemies on alone once in wolf form.  _Why did he not listen?_   _\- ‘_ Because he was a bloody Icebrain’, a small voice told Farkas.  It sounded somewhat like Vignar had when the old man had lamented that he didn't have his brother's smarts. 

“You and me both”, Skjor snorted, as if he understood what his shield-brother was trying to tell him.  “Listen –”

“Vilkas”, Farkas threw in before Skjor could say another word and watched the other warrior give a tiny nod. 

“Listen,... Vilkas”, he continued.  “You hang on in there.  I left a letter.  Help may yet come for you.”  There was only Aela left, but Skjor did not want to upset the young warrior with recent events from Jorrvaskr. 

“What do you mean?”  Farkas shook his head, trying to shake the ever-present daze.  If only he could think clearly, maybe he would understand what Skjor was trying to tell him. 

“The Hunting Grounds are calling to me.” 

“No!”  Skjor could not die.  He and Kodlak, they had always been there for them and for the whelps.  What would the Companions do without their guidance and their experience? 

Skjor smiled sadly.  “I made a promise to your brother”, he replied softly.  “I'll keep it if that's the last thing I do.” 

It sounded so final, Farkas did not know how to answer.  So he didn't and just sat there, hugging his knees to his chest, letting his mind drift.  It was strangely comforting to have company.  Sometimes, when he felt himself nodding off and jerked back into wakefulness all on his own, without his jailor's help, he thought that everything had been just a dream.  A conjuration of his tired mind.  But one look always confirmed that Skjor really was here.  He wondered what else he could say to Skjor, but nothing sounded appropriate and so any words that could be shared between them went unsaid. 

Of course Farkas couldn't think of anything, just as he couldn't come up with an escape plan or trick the Silver Hand into helping him.  Because he was bloody _stupid_ , everybody had told him so, but the Companion had never paid the teasing any heed, until now.  The jokes came back to him now, their laughing faces. 

Krev came back, too. 

“Ah”, Skjor sighed and mumbled quietly enough that probably only Farkas heard it “Must be morning then.” 

Not that it mattered much down here.  The Silver Hand leader just stood in the middle room, her gaze roving over both of them, hands on her hips.  “One of you is going to keep me company today”, she announced in a cheerful, but menacing voice. 

Farkas had no delusions about what she wanted them for and wondered whether looking away was going to help somehow, make her notice him less.  He decided that no, it was better to keep the enemy in sight. 

Krev pointed her finger straight at him, and for a split second his heart stopped.  But then she laughed and that accusing finger wandered to Skjor. 

 _“Ein, tveir, lítt smali_ _útan leikæru...”_  

Farkas knew the counting game that was popular amongst children.   _One, two, little sheep playing outside; when one cries ‘wolf’ run, run and hide..._

She mocked them.  Even now it was not enough to kill them and be done with it, no, she had to ridicule them every step of the way.  Farkas did not know he had stood up until he bumped into the iron bars.  There was no suppressing the deep growl that escaped his throat, but Krev only raised an eyebrow, not stopping her counting. 

That bitch wouldn't be so smug if there were no chains and no cage to hold him back. 

“... _eða nú es einga.”_   _And now there's only one._

“Take him away”, the Skinner ordered and the other members of the Silver Hand immediately sprang into action. 

Farkas snarled at the men and woman, wanting nothing more but to rip into them as walked past.  But there was nothing he could do when they unchained Skjor and dragged him away, one man slamming his mailed fist into the Companion's unprotected belly when he tried to resist. 

Krev stayed behind watching the remaining prisoner's reaction with mild curiosity.  Other than that there was no emotion behind those pretty, lifeless eyes. 

“Happy?”, she finally asked him when he had stopped his pacing and just gripped the iron bars.  “To be the one that got away?” 

Farkas shook his head, eyes wide with shock when it dawned on him what they were about to do. He had been aware of it all along, but knowing and _knowing_ were two different things entirely.

“You will be”, Krev told him, turned and walked out of the room, leaving Farkas alone once more. 

It was just him, the torches and the ever present watchdog sitting in a chair close to the door.  The big warrior sank down on shaking legs.  He did not realize that his breath came in sharp pants until it was the only sound in the room. 

For a long while nothing happened.  Then the screams began, sporadically at first and muffled, like they were being smothered, then more frequently, until shrill shrieks of agony echoed throughout the corridor and the fort.  Farkas covered his ears with his hands, but with how sharp they were it did him little good.  He had never been one for praying, but that's what he did then; awkward and unpractised in his phrasing, but he put his heart and soul into it. 

Vilkas had probably been right when he had said that the Nine had turned from them, because there was no answer to his prayers. 

When they dragged Skjor back in some hours later, the other Companion could do no more than limply hang in his fetters and moan softly.  Farkas could not look at him or what remained of his friend's hands, huddling in a corner instead and rocking back and forth. 

He smelled bile and urine and heard the drip of blood as it collected in a pool at Skjor's feet.  He should not be disgusted, but he was and felt shame burn through him because of it. 

And because of the frightened way he shrank back from Krev when the Silver Hand torturer came back to behold the aftermath of her work.  Had she not done enough? 

“Pretty, wouldn't you agree?”, woman began.  “It is an art, you know.”  Her tone was light, conversational, like they were discussing the arrangement of flowers in a garden.  Farkas did not deign her comments with an answer, hoping only she would grow bored and go away and leave him be. 

“Do you wish to know more about it?”  She did not expect him to reply.  “Before I smashed his fingers I removed his nails.” 

She twisted something and there was a high, keening whine from the other prisoner – Farkas could not think of him as the man he had known throughout his entire life.  He could look away all he wanted, but it never stopped him from hearing. 

“Here, I will show you how.” 

The chains went taut, forcing him to stand and Farkas' heart leaped into his throat.  He forgot about the other man as he tried to resist, to pull his hands together, but there was more of _them_ and they were stronger.  For the second time Krev entered his cage and he could do nothing against the shaking that grew worse until his chains rattled.  Eyes wide, the Companion watched her retrieve some small, wicked looking tool from a tray.  He had enough time to notice that it was silvered and clenched his fingers into fists. 

The Silver Hand leader was not pleased with his reaction, a frown on her brows and a pout to her lips.  “Fine.  Have it your way; I care not about your fingers.” 

“Pliers”, Krev said to one of her assistants, the cool tone and clinical detachment made her sound by all accounts like Danica when she worked over one of her patients. 

Farkas quickly opened his hand.  His entire body had gone taut and willing himself to unclench his fingers was the most difficult thing he had ever done, but he complied because the alternative was even worse. 

Krev looked surprised for a moment, before her expression turned to one of satisfaction..  “Very good”, she purred.  You learn fast, I like that.”  Like he was some bloody dog to be petted on the head.  Farkas hated himself even more for giving in to her.  “I'll go easy on you; just two, to give you a taste.”

He screamed, thrashed and banged his head against the wall and when it was over, Farkas could still not believe that something as small and insignificant could hurt as much.  His entire arm throbbed and when they let him down again, the big man sucked on the hurt digits, not sure if that was making it any better, but that's what instinct told him to do. 

Farkas did not think it could get any worse than this.  He was proven wrong during the next day. 

He wished he just done what Wulf had told him to back in the crypt.  He wished everything would go away, that he could just crawl into some dark hole and never come out again.  He wished the Silver Hand to Oblivion and that Skjor would shut the fuck up. 

‘Make it stop, please.  Please!  Make it stop!  Make it stop.’  It became his mantra and he chanted it over and over again, pleading with the Nine, the Daedra, his captors, he did not know himself.  Only that he could not take any more.  Nails left bloody furrows in his skin, but he didn't care.  Not about the sting, not that he had bitten off the skin around his remaining nails.  Pain would be easier to endure than this. 

On the third day Skjor begged the Silver Hand to take Farkas in his stead when they came for him. 

The younger Companion pleaded with them to stop too, his voice a mere husk by now, but through some miracle they heard him.  And they came to a halt, Krev walking up to the bars, nodding her head in agreement. 

“Alright.”  Her smile looked kind, but thoughtful and Farkas couldn't believe she was agreeing to this.  He did not remember ever begging for something like he did in that moment and the Silver Hand was hearing him out. And when he was done, she replied him “It's not that easy, you see”, sending the hope he had worked up crashing right back to the ground.  “I will stop, but I want something in return.”  

“What?”  What else could she possibly want? 

The answer was simple.  “You.  I will give your friend a break if you take his place.” 

He was shaking his head, not conscious of the act before she was done speaking.  Krev looked at him with expectation, but he could not bring himself to say ‘yes’, couldn't make his numb mouth move and form the simple word. 

“He is your friend”, she reminded him, sounding disappointed.  “Your shield-brother.  Will you not do this for him?  Are you truly so selfish?” 

He couldn't.  Arkay have mercy on him, he couldn't.  Skjor had begun to scream again, but above the ringing in his ears Farkas could not make out a single word.  It was no mercy. 

Not only stupid, but a coward too, and a traitor to his shield-siblings.  But she had been seen through him right from the start.  He was glad that it wasn't him down there.  Farkas took a step back and another, shrinking back against the wall of his prison.   His legs gave out on him, his heart was racing and he had to retch, but he had not eaten and all he did was hold his cramping stomach as he dry heaved. 

“As you wish.”  Krev did not give him another chance to speak up. 

Ten minutes later the shrieks began again and Farkas buried his head between his knees.  Fifteen more and he was screaming his own throat raw; anything to drawn out the sound of a man being skinned alive. 

Krev returned later in the day.  “I would have let him live another day”, she told him, her voice the only sound in the ominous silence that had settled over the dungeon..  “For somebody who's supposed to be smart you're bloody stupid, Vilkas.” 

“I’m not Vilkas!”, Farkas choked out in answer. 

“What?”  If was the first and only time he caught her completely off-guard. 

He laughed then, amidst the tears, knowing that he will regret his actions later, but the petty act of defiance felt like something significant.  “I'm Farkas!”, the big warrior confessed between gulps of air.  “The idiot brother!  Now I wonder what that makes you!”

Krev's look was one of disbelief and fury and her mouth hung open when she learned of his true identity.  He might had after all successfully foiled her plans for Vilkas.  A hollow success in consideration of the cost at which it came.  Maybe, if he angered her enough, she would kill him quickly. 

But the Silver Hand leader did not go for a sword, but rather a wooden box and pulled something out of it.  “Here, I have a gift from your friend.”  Her voice was cold as ice, her eyes ablaze.  “Something to remember him by!” 

Whatever it was, landed next to the Companion with a soft splat.  Farkas closed his eyes.  Began his rocking again; forth and back. 

And when she left he did not know which was worse; the screaming he had endured for the past days or the ear-splitting silence that followed. 


	27. BTS

They covered three hundred miles in three days.  It cost them three of their spare horses when they had to leave the tired animals behind or risk them collapsing under their riders.  Wulf briefly wondered whether there was any significance to the number three.  Probably not.  Mostly though, he just tried not to fall out of the saddle.  In total they had had half a day's rest, which amounted of four hours of respite per day for the horses.  The riders were better off, taking turns sleeping two at a time with the other two leading their mounts while they drowsed. 

Still, it was exhausting and uncomfortable as hell.  Aela was probably suffering the most; she truly was a terrible rider.  Lydia seemed to be none the worse for wear and Vilkas was in the lead and he had a look of determination on his face that had appeared on the day they had set out from Whiterun and that had both something forbidding and forlorn about it.  He had not spoken more than a couple of words since their departure.  None of them had.  But at least they were now drawing close to Gallows Rock, the tall warrior's hardheadedness pushing them ever onwards towards their goal.  

They had passed the Valtheim Towers yesterday, but had only allowed themselves a brief stop.  For once the towers were manned by soldiers, not bandits.  After Aela and Njada had cleared them out at about the same time Wulf had been travelling with Vilkas, Balgruuf had stationed a garrison of six guards in what had been a dream spot for highway robbers in the past due to its strategic position overlooking the main trade route with the eastern Holds. 

Finding Gallows Rock had been the subject of lengthy debates back when they had still been in Jorrvaskr.  The simplest way would be to stick to the highway between Whiterun and Windhelm and ride to the village named for its mill, the Mixwater Mill.  The villagers might be able to give them instructions, somebody must have noticed the brigands living in the woods.  They would have to buy food occasionally and have their weapons and armour looked after by a smith. 

From there the Companions could go westward, according to the sketch Wulf had made based on the Silver Hand's own map, the fort should not be hard to find.  Unfortunately, the simple way was also the long one.  It was possible to cross the White River at the broad shallows that stretched out before the rapids began.  They would have to search for their destination, but it would save them an additional hundred miles to the Mixwater. 

The decision which route they would follow was yet before them.  Taking into account how they were faring though, Wulf did not think that their horses would make it another day.  And even if they did, their riders would be far from fit for the inevitable battle.  They were all weary, but the fighting spirit was there – yet. 

Wulfryk was holding up well enough considering the circumstances.  He still had pain in the abdomen, but not as bad as it had been when he had returned from the woods where his friend and housecarl had found him.  The constant motion though unpleasant might have done him some good after all, loosening cramped and sore muscles and strengthening them after his injury. 

He didn't feel any different than he had before he had become a werewolf, either.  Wulfryk's memories had not returned, he did not remember one moment after his transformation.  As far as he was concerned, he had blacked out in the Underforge and woken up under a bush, two days of travel away from home.  Vilkas' admission to using Jorrvaskr's funds to regain the use of his arm left no doubts to the state Wulf had left him in right after his first transformation. 

He wasn't sure how it had happened or when he had changed, in fact he did not even know how to change, but this was not the right time to discuss such things.  Nor was the overall situation suited for chatter.  The faces of all four comrades were grim, their postures tense.  The mood was darker than the King of Rape's soul, if he had one, that was, and beneath their riders the horses were twitchy and irritable in spite of their obvious fatigue.  Wulf's own half-Imperial, half-Nord black - one of these days he would have to give it a name other than ‘stop that, you effing crock!’ - was still going strong and he felt rather proud of acquiring the beast when he had.  Beyond doubt it must have belonged to somebody who had considerable knowledge of horseflesh and it didn't jostle him half as badly as the spare did.  His arse was sore enough, thank you very much, and from the wrong activity at that! 

Wulf was almost glad when a sudden call interrupted the monotony of the ride. 

“Companion!” 

Four swords were drawn before the man who had addressed Vilkas uttered another word.  They had met few people on the road and traded words with no one and this close to the Silver Hand's lair it was understandable that they were jumpy.  The four were weary of Silver Hand spies, but they had yet to leave the main road for the path that would lead them into the woods and to the ruins of the old fortress that their enemy had chosen as headquarters. 

Faced with armed and mounted warriors, the stranger held up his hands, showing them that they were empty.  He was carrying a small pack and a short seax that was as much a tool as it was a weapon, but it was sheathed and posed little threat to either of them.  The unfamiliar traveller slowly reached towards his hood and pushed it back, revealing the face of a dark haired Nord in his early to middle twenties. 

“Your armour”, the man said, obviously uncomfortable with the scrutiny he was subjected to and nervously continued “You are Companions, right?” 

“Just so”, Vilkas answered and Wulf could see he was already irritated with the interruption.  Being called out as such was disconcerting considering where they were headed.  “And who are you?” 

“My name”, the Nord responded and swallowed.  He looked nervous and afraid and that in itself was suspicious.  Or maybe it wasn't.  Not everybody could face four warriors of a legendary order unflinchingly, Wulf thought.  Whatever it was the stranger was struggling with, his demeanour changed abruptly when he came to a decision.  With newfound resolve the stranger stood tall and introduced himself as Jolgeir Mathiesson. 

He looked them all in the eye, took a deep breath and stated “I come from Gallows Rock.” 

Everything came to a stop.  Birds chirped above them, hidden from view by a thick canopy of leaves.  Specks of light danced over the horses' coats and glinted off the polished metal of Vilkas' blade as it soared through the air.  Wulf fully expected the Companion to kill the stranger, but was surprised when the warrior's sword came to rest against his neck instead of severing his head from his shoulders.  There was something dark brewing behind Vilkas' pale eyes, though. 

Jolgeir must have seen it as well, and breathlessly exclaimed “The man held captive there– he is your brother.”  Of course, if he had seen Farkas there was no mistaking the kinship between him and his twin. 

They all heard the tall warrior's sharp intake of breath, saw his usually steady hand jerk and paint a streak of red across Jolgeir's neck.  “Is he alive?”, Vilkas asked, hope shining through his gruff voice. 

Like everyone else, Wulf stared at the stranger as if transfixed.  The cut in his neck was shallow, but it bled profusely and the Silver Hand raised a hand to the wound, dabbing at the red with tentative fingers.  The man blinked at the sight of his own blood, looking taken aback for a second before he tore his eyes away to meet Vilkas' and to answer his question.  “He was when I left.” 

“When was that?”, Vilkas immediately wanted to know, quickly following his question up with  “And what are you doing here?  Spying for your friends?” 

“Leaving”, Jolgeir replied firmly and with no small degree of revulsion.  “I didn't sign up for any of this.  It is sick and I want no part of it.  I last saw your brother six days ago”, he added, mumbling the last part. 

“Why should we believe you?”, Aela spoke up for the first time.  The Huntresses eyes were narrowed and her dark war paint that she had only reapplied without bothering to wash off the traces of the last paint gave her a wild, ferocious appearance that matched the steel in her voice. 

The Nord's eyes wandered to rest uneasily on the red headed woman.  If he knew who they were, he might just as well have signed his own death warrant by admitting where he had come from.  Wulf could only speculate why. 

“I had a little sister”, Jolgeir began, licking his lips, his throat bobbing against the tip of Vilkas' sword.  “Not long ago we lived in Falkreath together, our parents and I tending to the fields most of the day.  Lavinia, that was her name”, he explained quickly before he could be interrupted and closed his eyes, recalling an obviously painful incident.  “We found pieces of her strewn across half of the town.  The priest of Arkay stitched them back together for the burial.  A werewolf had butchered my sister and when the monster escaped from prison, the guard did nothing!  The Jarl did nothing!”, Jolgeir shouted, running his fingers through his hair when he realized whom he was yelling at.  He struggled for a moment and finally regained control of his emotions.  “My parents received four dozen pieces of gold for their loss! 

When no one said anything and it was clear that the others were all curious about the conclusion, the Companions shared a look.  It would be foolish of any Silver Hand to give them a sob story and expect them to believe it.  Maybe there was more to it, after all.  Wulf leaned forward to catch whatever Jolgeir had to say. 

“Some time later I was approached by a woman who had heard what had transpired”, the Nord forced out, with more calm.  “She offered to help me find the murderer.  I asked her why she would want to aid us and she replied she was from an order not unlike the Vigilantes of Stendarr, one that helped victims of werewolf attacks, who specialized in hunting down and killing lycanthropes. 

She did not ask for payment, but in return for their services, I would have to join the Silver Hand for a time, work my debt off, so to say.  You must understand; she was the first person who seemed to genuinely care!”  Jolgeir hung his head with shame when he finally admitted “I took the offer.” 

Search for victims, offer help and indebt the person in question.  It sounded like the typical recruitment tactics of any cult Wulf had ever come across.  He was a good enough judge of character that as a rule he knew whenever somebody was lying to his face.  Detecting half-truths was another matter entirely, but there were few possible ways one could interpret what Jolgeir had said.  He gave the man a hard stare.  He could smell his sweat and nervousness, fear even, but nothing to indicate he wasn't telling the truth.  If there even was such a thing as a ‘sly’ smell.  There were still a lot of things for him to figure out. 

The deserter walking in on them was almost too good to be true, but after their streak of misfortunes they were entitled to some luck. 

Vilkas' answering words were dripping with disbelief and sarcasm when he replied “There are plenty of warriors and guilds of high regard in Skyrim and you chose the cheapest!?” 

“We are farmers”, Jolgeir spat with scorn.  “We don't have the money to hire you folks.” 

Wulf snorted with amusement at the irony that somebody should be driven to the Silver Hand because the Companion's rates were too high.  By now he was convinced that nobody could fake that kind of honest outrage, outside of members of the Imperial Court or the famed performers of drama from Rihad. 

“Why tell us all of this?”, Aela enquired with a lot less rancour than she had before.  Wulf knew she too believed he was not lying.  A fool he might be for falling in with their enemies, but at least he was an honest one. 

Despite her asking the question, Jolgeir turned to Vilkas to answer.  “Because I spent two mornings listening to your brother talk about his family.  Because I want to help.  Make things right.  I've been trying to escape for a few months now, but you don't just walk away from the Silver Hand.  Everybody is being watched and the newer members especially.” 

Apparently, Vilkas was in some more need of convincing.  “This is all very convenient”, he growled. 

“No, it's not.”  Jolgeir raised his head defiantly.  “I could have walked straight past you.  I'd be on my way home, without anybody waving a sword in my face.  But then I thought maybe the Nine crossed our paths because they wanted me to seize this chance.  There was nothing I could do for your brother, but I can now.  Take my offer or kill me, but make haste.” 

Wulf thought it was high time to speak up.  “I don't see how it can do any harm, it's not like we didn't know we were walking into a trap”, he stated. 

“We don't have the time for this”, Vilkas replied with annoyance. 

“Actually it might save us a lot of time”; Wulf countered and Aela nodded in agreement.  “If the Silver Hand has any brains at all then they will use Farkas as leverage the moment we storm the fortress.”  They has discussed it countless times.  Jolgeir was a darned sneaky son of a snowtroll or a gift from the gods. 

“What we can't afford is to not take this into account.  And even if his intentions are to lead us straight to his friends, which I doubt, it will at least save us the time searching for one fort in the middle of the forest.” 

Vilkas had not taken that last part into account and just grumbled a disgruntled ‘ _hmph._ ”  

“I am not lying!”  Jolgeir insisted, sounding almost offended by the notion. 

“We don't think that you are”, Wulf assured him with a sardonic grin.  “You wouldn't be alive otherwise.  That doesn't mean we can trust you.” 

“Wulf is right; and we cannot just stroll through the front door.”  Aela summed up their problem rather nicely. 

“I can take you past the guards.”  They were all ears all of a sudden.  Jolgeir looked at each of the Companions in turn.  Licked his lips.  “There is a collapsed tower.  That's how I got out.” 

“How far is it from here to Gallow's Rock?”, the Huntress wanted to know next. 

“About thirty more miles.  This is my second day of walking.”  Jolgeir recounted how all they had to do was cross the river two miles from here and follow the stream upwards until they reached a lake.  Wulf remembered it from the Silver Hand map he had seen, the description matched flawlessly.  The fort might be in the middle of nowhere but it had to have an access to fresh water.  He shrugged, but his mind was made up.  “I say we take him with us”, Wulf voted.

When Aela agreed with her friend Vilkas threw his arms up in the air.  “Fine.” 

They took away Jolgeir's seax and patted him down for other weapons before binding his hands behind his back and seating him on a horse – backwards, so that he wouldn't be able to ride properly in case he reconsidered his offer.  The reins were firmly in Vilkas' hand and Aela rode behind, bow in hand and with an arrow nocked. 

Wulf trailed after them, Lydia at his side where she had been for the past days.  It was somewhat annoying always having her this close, but then on the other hand it was also nice to be waited on for a change.  Not that she had done much more than bring him food, brushed down his horse or lent a hand at pitching the tent.  Aela shot him dirty looks whenever Wulf accepted his housecarl's help, but when he had asked Lydia what he would have done without her, she had beamed up at him, eyes sparkling.  She seemed happy and if doing his chores made her thus, it really was a winning situation for all.  Wulf couldn't think of a logical reason why it would make Aela glower or Vilkas raise his eyes to the heavens and sigh heavily whenever Lydia said something like “As you wish, my Thane.” 

She had confessed to him on the second day that she had been taught those lines that were expected of her and part of an ancient custom, as some of the sayings supposedly dated back to the time when Shor and his housecarl walked the earth.  Lydia has laughed nervously, claiming she had no idea how she performed, all her training not having prepared for what it was like to actually serve a Thane. 

Wulf had smiled, patted her shoulder and told her she was doing great.  It was easy to keep her happy, even if he found Lydia's enthusiasm sadly lacking when it came to carrying his things.  Oh, well.  Maybe she just needed time to grow into her role.  It would be crucial to add that he was feeling rather proud of himself for making such an outstanding Thane, and without any guidance at that.  He must be a natural. 

Right now, the Nord woman leaned closer to whisper in his ear, covertly raising one finger to point at their prisoner.  Wulf inclined his head to catch the whispered words. 

“Do you think he was telling the truth about his family?”, Lydia asked.  Wulf shrugged his shoulders, he knew as much as she did. 

“What a terrible thing, to lose your little sister like this”, she went on and her Thane sighed inwardly.  She was talkative, that much was undisputable, although she had actually managed to keep silent today.  “I can't fault him for wanting to avenge her.”  After a while she added “What will we do with him, you know, _after_?” 

“After butchering his former pals?”, Wulf supplied with a mirthless smile.  He was looking forward to that part, holding a personal grudge against the Silver Hand for shooting him and taking away his possessions.  If nothing else, he would recover those; Wulfryk preferred not to think about all the things that could have happened to Farkas by now. 

“Let him go, most likely”, he guessed.  He had no clue about Vilkas' intentions, but he doubted the Companion would in cold blood dispose of the other Nord.  “ _If_ he is sincere in his intentions.” 

If not, there were four people who wouldn't lose a second of sleep over his dead body.  Wulf wouldn't want to be in the guy's shoes. 

Another hour of riding passed in tense silence and then another.  The stream was where Jolgeir had said it would be, as was the lake.  Wulf felt a collective wave of relief pass through their little group, but it did not last long.  Anticipation was coiling in his stomach, now that they were no longer drawing close to Gallows Rock.  Suddenly, unexpectedly, they were _there_.  Everybody was stiff and sore after a long time spent in the saddle and after dismounting they stretched, relieved themselves, refilled their water canteens, checked their equipment one last time and warmed up – necessary activities before the fight that was to come.  Aela scouted ahead in the direction that Jolgeir pointed out.  She returned a couple of minutes later, slipping between the trees without a sound except for a soft whistle to warn them of her return. 

“This is it”, the Huntress declared.  “It looks like the entire fort, or what's left of it, is sinking in the bog and nobody's bothering to do any repairs anymore.  The walls are in a sorry state and – ”, she inclined her head at the former Silver Hand member “I saw that tower you spoke of, and no guards close by to notice us if we slip in quickly and quietly.”  

“Thank you, Aela.”  Vilkas got up from his crouched position where he had checked the rope Jolgeir had insisted they would need and looked around.  “Ready, everybody?”  

“Finally!”, Wulf heard Lydia sigh.  He agreed with his housecarl.  It was good to finally take action.  One way or another they would finish it today and the Silver Hand would be dead – or they would.  Wulf firmly planned it to be the former; but he wasn't gambling away his life and staying around should it turn out to be the latter. 

The ground was soft and boggy and squelched beneath their feet when they carefully inched closer to the clearing.  Close to the forest it was solid enough to walk on, but the footing was still treacherous and everybody was happy when Aela took the lead.  The horses they left behind at the lake, if they survived there would be time to take care of the animals later and they did not want to risk any of them getting stuck in the mire.  Exhausted as they were, they might not make it out again. 

Gallows Rock came into view from between the trees, but the group circled around the intact part of the fort.  

Wulf was keeping an eye on Jolgeir, but their prisoner was behaving himself, even giving advice about the layout of the rooms, the changes of watch and how many armed warriors they could expect to encounter.  He really did want to ease his conscience or redeem himself in the Gods' eyes. 

Between the edge of the wood and the ruins of the wall there was some open space and they covered it with haste and crouched low, sticking to the shadows.  Lydia and Vilkas had taken their cloaks with them at Aela's behest and wrapped them around themselves to prevent sunlight from gleaming off their armour.  That was more likely to get them noticed than anything else.  They did not have any trouble slipping in unnoticed.  The Silver Hand had not bothered keeping plants from overgrowing what must once have been a backyard and there were plenty of hiding spots as well as the broken tower Jolgeir had talked about.  It was jutting out askew from the ground that had half-swallowed it.  The four warriors and their prisoner took cover behind it, safe from anyone who might accidentally look out from one of the few slim windows. 

“There's the entrance”, Jolgeir spoke up, pointing his chin towards the centre of the tower they were huddled behind.  “It's small and I covered it up with leaves when I left, but it will get you inside.  Part of the tower has broken in and the earth has filled it up.  I noticed the light back when I worked in the kitchens.  They are on the right side, just after a long empty corridor.  Nobody comes here.  Turn right after the kitchens and you'll find the cells, the stairs up are straight ahead.” 

It was just as he said.  They had to search for the opening, it _was_ small.  But once they had found it the rope was quickly secured to the tower and covered beneath fallen leaves as well and then it was time for them to go down.  Wulf looked down the hole, he could see nothing but blackness, but he could smell the rich soil and cool, damp air wafted up. 

“There's a draft”, he remarked to Aela who was keeping watch, but looked away from the main building for a moment.  “Means there's a large space behind”, Wulf explained.  Caves were very much like old ruins and he had spent much time in those.  “Well, ladies first.” 

The sound of a punch being thrown made them both turn around in time to see that Vilkas had knocked Jolgeir clean out.  Knowing his strength, the unfortunate Nord wouldn't rise anytime soon. 

“What?”, the tall warrior grunted when Aela lifted an eyebrow.  “We can't take him with us.” 

“Nothing.”  She grabbed the rope, hung her bow across her shoulder and nimbly made her way down. 

Her light leather armour certainly was an asset in this endeavour and the remaining three warriors shared unhappy looks, but in the end they all made it down safely.  Thankfully, it wasn't very far and the descent was very steep rather than vertical. 

“Anybody thought to bring some light?”, Lydia whispered, shaking out her arms once she let go of the rope.  “I'm not going back up again!” 

The opening above them was illuminating their surroundings somewhat and in the dim light Wulf saw Aela's eyes go wide and Vilkas too looked dismayed “Oh, shit!” 

“Sure.”  Under different circumstances Wulfryk would have been happy to show off his magic.  The little fiery orb drew only two gasps; but then Vilkas had seen it before.  It was not much, but enough to get by and anything more intense would work against them, robbing them of their night vision and alerting their enemies.  

The warriors slipped and skidded their way ungracefully to the bottom of the huge pile of rubble and dirt they were standing on until they had solid ground beneath their feet once more.  They cringed at the amount of noise they made, but after taking a few moments to listen they relaxed again; so far everything around them was quiet and the adjoined corridor was just as abandoned as it was supposed to be. 

It was time to draw weapons.  Vilkas had his two handed sword, Aela had her bow and Wulf and Lydia both were armed with sword and shield, though Wulf's blade was borrowed, he had lost his own to the Silver Hand.  He fully intended to remedy that today. 

The passageway connected the tower to the main building and apparently the Silver Hand used it to dump their refuse there – the one from the kitchens only thank the Divines, the last thing any of them wanted was to trek through the latrines. 

The thick walls had swallowed most sound, but when they rounded a corner they saw light flickering off the walls.  Wulf extinguished his own magical light and they proceeded with much more caution from now on. 

Finding the kitchens was easy.  People were hurrying to and fro, carrying tablets and cauldrons.  Everything was well lit with torches and the warm glow of several fires spilled out from the kitchen, along with the heat and smell of food.  “What's going on?”, Aela asked in a low voice at the same moment Lydia enquired “Is it dinnertime already?” 

She had nailed it, Wulf realized.  If most of the warriors were eating, this was the perfect opportunity to strike.  They could not have come up with a better distraction if they had tried.  It did not take long before the hubbub died down and everybody filed out, even the cook and his assistant after some woman had hollered “Bol, Dirk, get your arses up here!  Krev wants to hold a speech!” 

The noise coming from upstairs was enough to drown out anything the Companions might do down here.  Aela and Vilkas were staring at the stairs as if hypnotized by the sight. 

“Loud, aren't they”, Aela remarked, a malicious grin slowly spreading across her face.

“C'mon”, Wulf prodded her in the back, snapping his fingers in front of Vilkas' face to draw his attention away from the revelry.  “Let's check out the dungeon first.”  There could still be guards left and Wulf did not fancy being stabbed in the back because of carelessness.  He and Lydia took the right corridor while Vilkas and Aela searched the kitchens and a couple of rooms on the left. 

They got lucky soon enough and Wulf signed for his housecarl to wait.  Lydia wasn't happy, but she didn't argue.  The Nord woman was terrible at sneaking and she wasn't one for stealthy kills anyway, which was how Wulfryk himself preferred to pick off his targets.  He returned to the others with a bloody knife and a satisfied smirk. 

“Any sign of guards?”, Aela's voice greeted him. 

“Just two.”  Nothing he couldn't handle since one had been drowsing and the other had been taking a crap.  Wulf had to stifle his chuckles behind his fist.  It was a shitty way to go.  “They're both dead now.” 

“Good.  All we found was empty storerooms”, Aela complained.  She too was eager to see Silver Hand blood spill, to pick off their unsuspecting enemy.

“We need to find Farkas”, Vilkas interjected. 

“He could be anywhere”, Wulf pointed out.  “Some of these cell doors are locked and I don't think we can break through.  Not without making a racket that will bring down the rest of them bastards.  Wherever Farkas is, if he is still alive then there is nobody down here to hurt him anymore.” 

 

Vilkas did not like the delay, but they all agreed that now that there was nobody left in the dungeons it would be best to work their way outwards.  The entire Silver Hand would not be assembled in one place forever.  And they would have to stick together, four was few enough as it was.  “Fine.  Let's go!” 

Rambunctious laughter drifted down from the mess hall where several long tables were laden with food and the warriors seated around them dined and drank with gusto.  Their attention was on anything but the four intruders who were watching them avidly.  A few whispered words and hand signs was all they needed to come up with a plan of attack. 

Aela was the first to go.  She stood up, calmly taking several arrows in the hand that she also held her bow in, drawing them from the quiver would take too much time.  She nocked one, drew and let go of the string and across the room a woman fell over dead with half her head gone.  The merriment stopped, as everybody turned to stare and laughter turned to shrieks as two more Silver Hand members dropped in rapid succession.  A few slid under the table to hide whilst others were jumping up, reaching for weapons. 

A flash of fire, followed by the thunderous boom of Wulf's magic exploding was all it took to plunge the room into total chaos.  The wounded and dying screamed above the general clamour of running feet, chairs and tables toppling over and the roar of the fire.  

Vilkas saw and smelled burned, charred flesh and felt his stomach flip.  This.  This was why he hated magic.  Hated and yes, feared, and it was probably too much to hope for that Wulfryk had missed his alarmed stare.  Because it came too close to what had happened to him and Farkas.  Watching Wulf toss his fireballs at a dragon had been one thing, but humans?  It made him sick despite the fact that this was their enemy and dead was dead and it should not matter whether it was by sword, arrow or magic. 

‘Silver Hand’, Vilkas reminded himself as he sprang from cover, his shield-siblings at his side.  He clove through a man who was struggling up and roared with bloodlust.  Three more war cries joined his, Aela remained ominously silent, lost in concentration on her archery, but Wulf and Lydia and he dealt death as they swept over the enemy warriors.  Let them taste the wrath of the Companions! 

Although the four of them had never fought together, they made a fantastic team.  Vilkas' sword tore through armour and flesh while to his left Lydia knocked over an attacking woman, putting herself between her Thane and her opponent.  Wulf just danced around them and attacked from behind, stabbing his sword through the fallen warrior's back. 

Vilkas only saw them out of the corner of his eyes as he had to focus on his own adversaries.  Two man faced the Companion, one was limping and his leg was drenched in blood, but the second one swung a two handed club and forced the Companion to take a step back.  Just then an arrow soared past Vilkas and struck the warrior in the chest and he went down, clutching at the shaft and crying.  His friend soon joined him on the floor, disembowelled. 

The fighting was dying down; with the element of surprise they had overcome several times their own number.  The surviving warriors were running away, slipping on the bloody floor.  Vilkas was pleased to see the carnage they had wrecked.  He watched Lydia storm forward and into the next room, Aela behind her, giving cover to the housecarl.  Wulf was – Vilkas did a double take. 

Wulf was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the blood on his hands as if he had never seen it before.  His sword was gone and his shield hung from his arm, forgotten.  He did not react when Vilkas called out.  The Companion felt his heart hammer against his chest.  Combat always stirred his blood, but this sight was enough to freeze it in his veins.  He knew what was going on, had lived through it himself.  And now that he could really use someone to back him up, Aela and Lydia were both gone, with only the sounds of the ongoing fighting to tell him where the two women were. 

The memories of the black wolf's teeth and claws tearing through his flesh were still fresh in Vilkas' mind, even the pain of his mangled arm came back as a sharp reminder of the damage his friend was capable of inflicting.  He had never wanted to run away from anyone so badly in his life, not even when Wulf had used magic.  Because werewolves did not attack one another, no matter which form they currently were in, but then there was something profoundly wrong with his friend's beast. 

And just as his luck would have it he was the one who had to deal with the problem at hand.  Vilkas cursed, but he stepped closer until he could rest an arm on Wulf's shoulder.  The other Nord was breathing hard and when Vilkas tilted his head up, the first thing he noticed were the dilated pupils that almost swallowed the blue of Wulf's irises.  He stared back confused – and not yet entirely gone. 

Whoever remained of the Silver Hand by now had fled further inside the keep.  Given the time they would reorganize and they could not allow that to happen, but if Wulf lost it now, they were all dead.  Vilkas made up his mind.  Aela had Lydia, a trained housecarl, to fight alongside, they had to endure without him for a while.  He grabbed Wulf's arm and began to drag him away from the bloodbath that surrounded them and back downstairs from where they had just come.  The other man did not resist, but the Companion noticed he was shaking once they reached the bottom; slowly slipping away.  At least down here the stench of blood was no longer in the air. 

“Dammit Wulf, look at me!”  Anybody else and Vilkas would have slapped them, but he feared that the action might goad Wulf into defending himself.  “Look at me!”  They could have kissed, they were so close and the Companion might have done just that were his former lover not a hair's breadth from turning into a werewolf.  “You've got to fight it!”, he rasped, unsettled by his own jumble of emotions, not daring to break eye contact for even one moment. 

It was Wulf who blinked and looked away first and the big warrior held his breath when the other man leaned gradually closer until he could bury his face in the Companion's neck.  Vilkas could feel his rapid breaths ghost over his bare skin.  He did not want to have these teeth so close to his neck!  He felt sweat prick at his skin and prayed to the Divines that Wulf would be able to withstand the call of the wolf.  If he changed then Vilkas would be forced to transform as well and that was already one thing he had sworn not to do.  Such wild thoughts were racing through the big warrior's mind as he ran his hands through the other man's hair, rubbing his neck.  Dimly he noticed that his fingers were as cold and stiff as icicles. 

After a while that seemed to drag on forever the tension gradually began to leave his friend's body.  Vilkas was both immensely relieved and yet reluctant to draw away. 

 

“I need to join Aela.  Will you be fine?”  The concern in Vilkas' voice was touching and Wulf slowly nodded his head.  He would be, the haze was already retreating and though the position was rather pleasant, they still had a mission to finish.  Reluctantly, he drew away.  “I'll get Lydia, yes?”, the Companion offered uncertainly. 

“Sure.”  Wulf's answering smile was weak, but it was easier to just accept than to argue that he was fine on his own.  Dark underground places did not scare him as long as they were devoid of draugr, and he was fairly certain that the dead of this fort would stay that way.  His friend left after casting him one last look over his shoulder and Wulf relaxed slowly, letting out the breath he did not know he had been holding.  It was as shaky as he himself felt.  Resisting the transformation had been fatiguing and it left him wobbly, a feeling similar to refusing to throw up when one was violently sick.  It was the best comparison Wulf had and he now understood what Vilkas must have meant when he had spoken of ‘the call of the blood’ in the conversation he had overheard between the Companion and Kodlak on his first day in Jorrvaskr. 

Being a werewolf had not worked out well at all and maybe it would be better to put that little experiment to an end.  Vilkas had already almost lost an arm; it was only a matter of time until somebody died.  Wulf lacked the control over the beast that the others had and he would be better off without the beastblood. 

There was nothing he could do about it now though and so the Nord decided he might as well make himself useful in the meantime. 

He began his search for Farkas with the rooms on the left side, working his way from the back.  Wulfryk did not have to break in and enter, after all what were keyholes for, if not for spying?  That's how Lydia found him, peeking through the tiny opening as he illuminated the room beyond with a magical globe of light.  So far, all the cells had been empty. 

Lydia was quick to catch up.  There did not appear anything to be wrong with her Thane, he might have had a dizzy spell, but he was obviously well now. 

“Did you find something?”, she enquired and without waiting for an answer she opened the door next to the stair; surprisingly the doors swung open – not a cell then.  “What's in here?”  It was the stench that hit her first.  Old blood and piss and she knew she had found the torture chamber before Wulf's magical globe cast the room in a cold light and revealed a crumpled human shape in one corner.  The chamber was small and Lydia could very well have done without seeing its interior and the mutilated corpse within.  “Oh”, she choked, hand clasped over her mouth against the stench.  And again, “ _Oh._ ”

Wulf took a few steps closer and peeked over his housecarl's shoulder.  It took him a while to realize that it was the remains of a human body he was looking at.  And longer still to comprehend to whom they must have belonged.  “Fuck.”  He closed the door, cursing his newfound sense of smell to Oblivion and back. 

“Who are these sadistic monsters?”  Lydia sounded just as Wulfryk felt; queasy and appalled.  “How can anybody do this to another human being?” 

“Welcome to the headquarters of the Silver Hand”, her Thane muttered and rubbing the bridge of his nose he explained “They probably don't think of their prisoners as people.” 

They moved away from the room to the other side of the dungeon, Wulf sinking onto a bench in the kitchens that groaned under his weight. 

The housecarl studied the man before her.  “You look sick, my Thane”, she stated.  An idea struck Lydia that moment.  “These aren't the first dead you see, are they?”, she asked cautiously.  She knew from the soldier's tales that Wulfryk had killed a dragon, so she had just assumed he was a seasoned fighter.  What they had seen was horrible, yes, but hardly enough to turn a warrior's stomach.  Then again her Thane had been unwell before as well and Vilkas had appeared concerned with his wellbeing. 

Wulf snorted and shook his head.  “No.  But it is the first time I thought their mutilated bodies looked delicious”, he said with disgust. 

Lydia made a choking sound; that was the last thing she actually wanted to know about.  “Because you are a werewolf?”, she asked, not able to stop herself from prying.  They had not talked about her Thane's condition before and she needed to know what to expect.  Or maybe it was just the urge to find an excuse for his strange behaviour that drove her. 

“Yes.”  There was no denying what the beastblood was doing to him and Wulf owed Lydia an explanation.  “Though that's a recent development.” 

“You can trust me”, came the timid, yet reassuring answer. 

“So you say.”  Sharing his secrets with people he had met only a couple of days before was not something Wulf did.  He did not know why she would want to stick around, but so far Lydia had followed him without asking any questions.  And Aela had been quite adamant when she recounted how the other Nord woman had rushed to her Thane's rescue when she had believed that the Companions posed a threat to his life.  From what little Wulfryk knew about Nord customs, húskarla served no one but their masters, apparently to the point where they could look past what he had become.  Not even Vilkas questioned why Lydia was with them, she was just _expected_ to accompany him. 

“I am your housecarl”, Lydia answered simply, crouching down next to the sitting man, her arm resting lightly on his elbow.  “I am sworn to you”, she continued.  “Not the Jarl, not Whiterun, not even the High King could order me from your side.  I will fight for you.  I will die for you if I have to.  Your secrets are safe with me, my Thane.”  The truth was not easy to face, but there was absolutely no way she could forsake Wulfryk, and her honour with him.  It was what defined her, what it meant to be a Nord.  Any sane person would at least fear werewolves, but a housecarl deserting his Thane would be a disgrace, not worthy of Sovngarde, let alone the Hall of Valour.  Lydia could no more abandon her principles and a lifetime of training than she could an arm or a leg. 

Apparently Wulf was of another opinion.  “You don't know me”, he replied calmly, intently watching her reaction with his head tilted slightly. 

It made some of the dark strands of his hair that had come lose during the fight fall into his eyes.  He was not a bad man.  Troubled with a somewhat unusual...condition...but not bad.  Lydia smiled back at him.  “Not yet”, she replied.  “I hope we get to change that.” 

Wulf cracked a tired smile at that. 

“And there are some things I know, my Thane”, the housecarl continued, emboldened.  “I know that you are the Dragonborn.” 

“Please”, Wulf groaned unhappily, rubbing the palm of his hand across his face.  “One disaster at a time.” 

They remained silent for a while, but none of them wanted to think about what was around them.  “If I may ask, my Thane”, Lydia at last spoke up again “Are the Companions werewolves?” 

She already knew the answer to that question or believed she knew it, of that Wulfryk was sure.  It wasn't difficult to puzzle out once one already knew that there was one lycanthrope within their ranks, but quiet and observing as she had been, Lydia had most likely figured out the Companion's biggest secret.  Considering they were fighting werewolf hunters today, that probably left no doubt in her mind. 

“Not all of them, no.  Only a selected few are, and it have been for centuries.”  A bit of embellishment might not be uncalled for.  “It's a curse that was laid upon them”, Wulf clarified and wryly added “The very fact that nobody ever suspected anything shows how much better they deal with it than I do.  Kodlak is looking for a cure.  When he finds it I'll take it and things will be back to how they used to be.” 

He stood up, signalling that their conversation was over.  “We have to deal with Skjor's remains.” 

“We?”  Lydia sounded as enthusiastic as he felt. 

“Who else?”, Wulfryk sighed.  “His lover?  The man who had been raised by him?  Or I could order you to do it on your own.” 

“Right.”  She had gotten the message.  “Together”, Lydia agreed. 

“You put together some sacks and whatever else you can find”, Wulf ordered and gestured around the kitchens “And I'll look through the remaining cells, I still haven't seen Farkas.”  After finding Skjor he wasn't sure whether he wanted to look anymore.  But he did and he found his friend, slumped in the corner of a cage, probably unconscious but very much _alive_.  His lockpicks were already in his hand when Wulf reconsidered and put them away.  Vilkas should be the one to go in first.  After what the Silver Hand had done to Skjor, he could not rule out that Farkas had been subjected to torture as well and as much as he wanted to free his friend, Vilkas would be the one best suited to deal with his brother.  He took a step back and retreated from the door, dragging his feet over to the torture chamber where Lydia was waiting for him.  But she wasn't alone. 

“Vilkas!”, Wulf called out in surprise. 

Lydia jerked up as well.  They must have looked suspicious, because the big warrior's eyes narrowed.  “What's wrong?” 

Well, there was no good way to share the news.  Wulf gestured at the closed door to his right.  “Don’t let Aela in there”, he said as a warning.  “I just found Skjor.  Or, what's left of him.” 

He saw Vilkas blanch and sway and reached out to support his friend under the arm. 

“Did you get the keys?” 

“What?” 

“The keys, Vilkas”, Wulf pressed, forcing himself between the Companion and the door, blocking his sight.  When the big man gave a weary nod, he continued, pushing his friend in the other direction.  “Farkas is in the first cell on the right.  He is alive, I thought it would be best of you went in first.  I'll take care of-”  He broke off. 

Aela was standing on top of the stairs, staring back at them wide-eyed, pale as a sheet.  She had heard those last words. 

“That bitch laughed at me”, the Huntress whispered hoarsely.  “I killed her and she laughed.  Said she'd- ”Aela broke off abruptly, her voice breaking.  The Companion stormed down, ready to charge into the room as she would into battle.  She would not believe it, could not believe it until she saw her lover with her own eyes, but when Aela reached the bottom, she found Wulf standing between her and the door. 

“Aela don't.”  His composure, the reasonable voice, everything about him infuriated her. 

“Wulf, get out of my way!”, she warned him. 

“Aela, you don't want to see it.” 

The Huntress yelled at him to move out of the way and when he did not she punched him.  It was easy to forget that Wulf was wearing a full set of mail beneath his leathers but the pain that shot through her hand made her remember.  Aela came to herself, looking away from her friend's piercing blue eyes when her own filled with unshed tears. 

“Remember him as you last saw him.”  The soft words were meant for her alone, Aela knew. 

Something broke inside her, while at the same time a distant, detached part of her mind wondered if Wulf had ever buried someone beloved to know about such things.  There had never been anything between them other than friendship.  Wulf felt safe, in a weird way, because it was not protection that Aela craved.  She did not need it, but somehow her head came to rest against his chest, Wulf's arms wrapped around her. 

“Is it really him?” 

She felt more than heard his reply.  “Yes.” 

“Those bastards.  Those soulless bastards.”  It was all Aela could choke out without coming apart.  She squeezed her eyes shut, clamping down on the pain, the anger, until it was tiny speck inside her chest, burning hotter than the sun.  She did not cry, straightened slowly.  Blackblade women were nothing if not strong, in body and soul.  It had been a lesson taught to her by her mother, passed down from countless generations of Companions, back to Hrotti herself.  Aela would prove worthy of that heritage. 

The Huntress looked up to find three pairs of eyes trailed on her.  “I need to be alone”, she declared, voice still thick, but back under her control.  “Don't expect me to be back tonight.  I will hunt in Skjor's honour.” 

There were nods all around, but no more talk and she turned, walked away.  She would not weep.  And if she did, she would do so alone in the forest with no one around to witness.  With nobody to judge she would find solace in the solitude of the wilds and the spirit of the wolf. 

Wulfryk watched his friend leave, not trying to hold her back.  It was enough that she had been spared a sight that would undoubtedly have haunted her for the rest of her life.  Wulf understood her desire to be alone.  He felt sorry for Aela, but not in a hundred years would he willingly exchange Skjor's life for Farkas'.  He looked around with a heavy sigh, but Vilkas was already gone.  It was time for him and Lydia to do their part. 

As it turned out, the Silver Hand had a stable and two big draft horses, as well as a few carts.  Wulf chose one without a cage and they laid Skjor's corpse out on top.  Next, he intended to find some clothes for his friend, his own effects he could look for later.  Farkas would appreciate it, Wulf thought. 

Walking through the backyard Wulf almost stumbled over the unconscious form of a man.  Shit, he had completely forgotten about Jolgeir!  It took a while and several slaps to the face to rouse him from his sleep, and when he shot up Wulf helped him to his feet, cutting the bonds that secured the other Nord's hands behind his back. 

He did not wait for the dazed look to clear from the man's face, before giving him instructions.  “Take one of the horses and get as far away from here as you can.”  If Aela hunted in these woods tonight Wulf doubted she would care that he had helped them.  All she would see was a Silver Hand.  “Except for the black.  That one's mine”, Wulf added.  “Go back home kid, and don't get involved with any more crazy cults.” 

Jolgeir apparently could not believe what he heard and he stammered many a ‘thank you’, before he finally moved on. 

They should be thanking him, without the man's unexpected aid it would have been nigh impossible for just the four of them to overcome the Silver Hand, but Wulf only wordlessly watched him disappear between the trees before returning to Lydia.  If anybody asked, he could always maintain that Jolgeir must have woken and made off on his own, not sure whether the Companions would live up to their end of the bargain.  And with how things turned out Wulf wouldn't be surprised if they didn't. 

 

xxxx

 

Vilkas nervously cast a glance at the ring of keys in his hand.  The news of Skjor's death had come as a shock, especially when he remembered the nature of their parting.  He knew that it was his fault, his angry words that had driven the older Companion away.  Who could have suspected that Skjor had taken all those horrible things he had said in his blind fury to heart and set out on his own to rescue Farkas?  He had not.  But he should have, the warrior thought and his hand clenched around the keys until the metal dug into his palm painfully. 

Vilkas blinked and forcibly pushed back the guilt before it could overwhelm him.  Wulf was right, Farkas needed him now.  The living had to come before the dead.  Skjor would get a burial at the Skyforge with all the honours befitting a Companion and a Great War veteran.  Kodlak would be devastated when he learned of his old friend's death, of that Vilkas was sure.  He was not looking forward to bringing the news back to Jorrvaskr, and yet the Harbinger was one person he wanted to speak to, to unburden his heart – now more than ever. 

The first key the Companion tried did not fit and neither did the second.  On the third try the lock turned and clicked and a push on the handle opened the door.  Vilkas' heart jumped to his throat.  Had really a month passed since he had last seen his twin?  He was afraid of what he would find behind that door.  For one moment he could not move, could not bring himself to face what might await him in the chamber beyond, but then he heard the faint rattle of chains and a soft, frightened whimper and the spell that had taken hold over his body and mind was broken. 

The Companion stepped into the room, only to behold his brother recoil at the sight of him, as if he was something out Farkas' worst nightmares.   

“No!”  The single, frantic cry tore at his heart as Vilkas watched the man in chains struggle upright.  Farkas looked...he looked horrified at the sight of him, an expression that hit the Companion like a punch to the gut, stopping him halfway across the room.  By the Nine, what had they done to him?  Vilkas would recognize the familiar face, so alike his own everywhere, but not the fear in his brother's voice, nor the haunted look in his eyes.  He could look past the long beard and hair, the dirt and even how alarmingly thin Farkas had become, but not once in his life had he heard such anguish in his brother's voice, such despair. 

“Vilkas, no!  Get out of here; this is a trap, the Silver Hand –” 

“I know”, he interrupted his twin before he could work himself into hysteria.  “It's alright”, Vilkas said, trying to keep his voice low and calm, talking in a manner as he would to a scared horse  “They're dead.” 

Some terrible part of him screamed that he did not recognize this man; that terrified prisoner was not the brother he had seen off but a few weeks ago. 

_What had they done to him!?_

Farkas was staring back at him with huge eyes and Vilkas was not at all sure that he had heard, let alone understood what he had said.  So he repeated it, like a chant he kept muttering as he slowly approached the cage his brother was imprisoned in.  “The Silver Hand is dead.  Krev is dead.  Everything is alright.  We've come to get you out.” 

From up close he could see that Farkas was in a worse state than Vilkas had assumed at first.  He could count his twin's ribs easily and his eyes were bloodshot and ringed by the worst circles he had ever seen on a living person, staring out from a pale, gaunt face.  But when the Companion came within reach, his brother's hand shot through the bars to grip his forearm with the strength of one who has wielded a sword his entire life.  The trembling was new though and there were not enough curse words for the Silver Hand in Vilkas' opinion, nor was there a death horrible enough to revenge what they had done.  Prying his brother's fingers from his arm hurt physically, as did listening to Farkas' breath turn ragged at the rejection. 

Vilkas' own hands shook when he tried to open the prison's doors, enough that he missed the keyhole several times.  He cursed a blue streak, wiped the sweat off his hands on his pants and when he finally succeeded and stepped into the small cell, there was no holding back from sweeping his twin into a crushing embrace.  Farkas was returning it with as much vigour, but then the big man seemed to deflate and soon he was hanging on to Vilkas for dear life as he began to cry with his head buried in his brother's neck; great wrecking sobs that he let out for the first time since his imprisonment. 

“Shhh”, Vilkas hummed, rubbing Farkas' sides and his back, patting his twin's head and making gentle sounds of comfort.  It brought back the worst memories of their childhood and the Companion struggled for a brief moment because he could not allow those to overwhelm him.  So he just kept murmuring how everything was alright and how they would be fine, never ceasing to rub soothing circles over his brother's back.  He was supposed to be good with words, right?  Later he would not be able to recount a single one of the things he had said, but somehow he managed to get Farkas to calm down. 

“Hey”, Vilkas gave his brother a little shake, reluctantly letting go and giving him the tiniest push to encourage the other man to do the same.  “Let's get you out of here, yes?”, he softly prompted and was relieved to see Farkas give a tiny nod in return.  Damn, but he should have thought of bringing some clothes!  The Companion ripped off one of his sleeves and handed it to his brother for him to clean his face with, which he did obediently while Vilkas worked on his shackles until the last of the metal bonds fell away. 

The abused, raw skin around Farkas' wrists and ankles would need to be looked after to prevent infection and the scars would take a very long time to fade.  But all that mattered in that moment was getting out of this hellhole.  Vilkas found a blanket that he wrapped his brother in and together they stumbled out of the prison, the smaller twin supporting the bigger. 

When they reached the doorway though, Farkas suddenly stopped, the unexpected movement causing Vilkas to lose his grip. 

“Skjor.”  Only one word, yet Vilkas cringed, shifting with discomfort.  Farkas looked sick and he couldn't bring himself to meet his twin's eyes as he whispered “They killed him.  Vilkas, they killed him.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

There was nothing else he could do or say now to ease his brother's pain, so Vilkas reached out to take Farkas' hand and pull him along but stopped when the other man continued.  “Just like they killed Wulf in that Cairn –”  He looked so forlorn when he huskily began to whisper apologies.  “I’m sorry.  I know you liked him.  I'm so sorry!” 

 _What?_   “No.”  Vilkas would not let his brother suffer one more moment.  He grasped his twin's chin, forcing him to look into his eyes, to understand.  “Listen, Farkas.  Wulf is alive.  He is alive.  That's how we knew where to find you, because he told us.” 

He must have blamed himself for losing two shield brothers and Vilkas knew how proud Farkas was that no one ever got as much as a bad injury when he was their partner on assignments.  He looked after his friends and fellow Companions and the guilt must have been eating him alive. 

“But...but they shot him.  I saw it.”  Farkas did not sound hopeful at all despite the good news.  He appeared defeated. 

With a start Vilkas realized that his brother did not believe him.  “Did I ever lie to you?”, he asked softly. 

“Yes.”  It was not the answer Vilkas expected to hear, but Farkas continued, oblivious to the stunned silence from the other man. “You said there were Falmer living above the Skyforge.  You said only Eorlund was strong enough to fight them off.  And you kept telling me my teeth would fall out if I ate all the sweets Tilma kept in that jar.” 

“And you ate them anyway”, Vilkas chuckled.  He had forgotten all about those small transgressions, but now he recalled the lie he had told Farkas to keep him from the hot forge and many more small things.  He never would have thought that his twin remembered them all.  Vilkas gently poked his brother in the side.  “About the important things?”, he prompted and a weight lifted off his chest when he saw Farkas shake his head. 

They began walking again, Vilkas steering them through the keep as there was no point in trying to get Farkas through the broken tower.  It might have saved them some grisly sights, but as a warrior his brother had never shied away from the sight of dead bodies and indeed he barely seemed to notice the corpses around him anyway. 

Instead, his entire demeanour gave the impression of one who walks in his dreams – distant and unresponsive.  But when they finally made it past the main gates and out into the open air of a beautiful autumn evening a spark of life returned to Farkas' face.  His eyes were closed against the harsh light, but he inhaled deeply and tilted his head up, towards the sun. 

Vilkas noticed the cart that had not been here before and a vaguely body shaped form under a thick woollen carpet that lay on top.  Just then Wulf and Lydia rounded the corner, each leading a horse, one already in full tack.  Wulfryk handed his animal's reins over to his housecarl when he spotted the twins standing in front of the fort and, after receiving an encouraging nod from Vilkas, he approached. 

“Hello, Farkas”, Wulf greeted quietly, but cheerfully.  It still made the other man jump and blink at him like he was seeing a ghost.  His eyes were tearing up either because of the light or because the last time Farkas had seen his friend, Wulf had been lying in a puddle of his own blood, unconscious.  “You look like shit.” 

Farkas choked on a sob and what might have been a laugh, hiccupped and whispered “I thought you were dead.” 

He received his second hug of the day shortly after when Wulf decided that it was his due to squeeze the life out of the big warrior, who returned the gesture enthusiastically.  Something was weird about his friend though.  Farkas noticed, brows furrowing.  He sniffed.  “You are one of us?  How...?” 

Just then a piercing scream from within the fort broke the quiet.  Aela must have gotten hold of a Silver Hand not dead yet, or maybe an unfortunate prisoner.  Farkas withdrew immediately and clasped his hands over his ears. 

Wulf looked at the disturbed man before him and his exhausted brother.  Skjor was dead, Aela mad with sorrow and he was a werewolf with no self-control.  What a bunch of heroes they were.

“It's a long story”, he replied and pointed the way from which they had come.  “There's a lake over there if you want to get cleaned up and –” he jogged towards the cart and retrieved a bundle that he pressed into Farkas' hands.  “Here are some clean clothes and soap.” 

Vilkas cast him a look that he hoped conveyed his gratefulness and mouthed ‘thank you’ when Farkas noticed another person. 

“Oh”, Wulf added and pointed at the woman standing on tiptoe behind the horses who waved when they all looked over “And this is Lydia.” 

“Hi!” 

Farkas appeared overwhelmed with all the attention he was getting and everything that had happened within those past minutes, blinking owlishly at his surroundings until he turned back to Vilkas, a question burning in his eyes.  Slowly, uncertainly and with wonder in his eyes, as if he could not believe any of it, he asked “Is it over?” 

“Yes.”  Vilkas felt the first real smile since the news of Farkas' capture spread across his face.  “It is over.  We're taking you home, brother.” 


	28. BTS

Never in his five-and-twenty years of life had Vilkas seen his twin show as much enthusiasm at the prospect of a bath before.

He remembered when they were very young and Tilma had to drag his resisting sibling by the ear to the bathtub because he had snuck inside Jorrvaskr spattered with mud from head to toes. He had been wrestling with Jon or Thorald or one of the other boys and though his eyes were filled with guilt – he knew well what Tilma thought about treading mud in the carpets and sanded wooden floors – he protested energetically and loudly, face bright red and streaked with tears, crying at the full power of his lungs. The old housekeeper could cluck her tongue all she wanted and Jurgen could make threats they knew were idle; it was Vilkas' promise to surrender his dessert that got his brother in the tub without further ado.

But that had been many years ago. Today, Farkas jumped into the lake without hesitation, only gasping in surprise at the icy cold water, though that did not stop him from immersing himself fully. He used up the soap Wulf had given him, scrubbing the grime from his body with vigour, as if he wanted to get rid of his very skin, or maybe wash off the memories and the taint of his time as a prisoner like they were dirt.

Farkas emerged after a long time, dripping, shivering and with blue lips. Vilkas actually worried he might catch the cold, despite the hardiness granted to them through their Nord blood. After that, all energy seemed to leave his brother. He looked to be falling asleep on his feet and Vilkas helped him into the clothes their friend had provided, steered his brother through the forest to the main road and a clearing where Lydia had a fire going and gently pushed on his shoulders to get him to sit down.

The housecarl had not been idle, she had rounded up their horses, relieved them of their tack and brushed their scruffy, matted coats. There were pots with hot food hanging over the fire and the smell made both Companions' mouths water. Vilkas briefly wondered how Lydia had gotten a meal together so fast before he recalled that it probably came straight from the Silver Hand kitchens. He did not waste any more thoughts on its origins than that and looked around. Off to the side on the road their cart stood and the dray hitched to it pawed at the ground in boredom. Of Wulf there was no sign.

A heavy woollen blanket that smelled of horse sweat fell across his shoulders. Vilkas twitched at the unexpected action; his thoughts had begun to drift and his attention to waver. Next to him Farkas was already bundled up right to his chin that bumped against his chest every now and then when he fell asleep only to jerk awake right after. It made the smaller twin realize just how tired he was himself. His armour was too heavy and in stark contrast his head felt too light. His feet were warm where a small flame licked at the soles of his boots.

It was nearly comfortable, their backs resting against an overturned log while Lydia was softly humming something, picked up a bowl and filled it up to the brim. She approached them, cautiously going down on one knee next to Farkas and placed the bowl in his lap. A moment later the warrior took the spoon, eying it almost as if he wasn't quite sure what it was for and slowly began to eat. Vilkas noted how long it took his brother to react to anything that was happening around him. Chewing cost him all his concentration and then Vilkas turned away because he received his own portion and nodded his thanks at the woman taking care of them.

Wulf's housecarl was bustling around, from their little camp to the horses to the cart and back. She appeared unsure what to do with herself and her pacing made Vilkas twitchy. Farkas began to tense up as well, probably reacting to his brother's discomfort. It came as a relief when they all heard vivid cursing nearby.

“Sons of bitches and trolls!”

Wulf appeared between the trees, dragging something along that turned out to be his old backpack.

“Did you find it, my Thane?”, Lydia enquired as soon as the Nord threw himself down opposite of the twins, already eagerly reaching for a plate of his own.

“The sword?”, Wulf asked between bites. “Yes. But – ”, he spat out a bone he had chewed on and continued unhappily “Half of my stuff is gone.” Wulfryk complained at length that quite a few of his things were missing, his clothes and quiver as well as some everyday tools. All his healing supplies were gone too and his warpaint had been used up to boot.

“Dumb twats used it to paint on walls and play crosses and circles.” Wulf sighed heavily as if he could not imagine such barbaric misuse of his property.

“Makes one wonder what they did to your other things”, Lydia chimed in, by all means oblivious to her Thane's bleak mood. “What else went missing did you say – salve?”

The look of pure disgust on Wulf's face was enough to make Vilkas snort.

Farkas' head slowly turned from one speaker to the other, but after one glance his brother saw that he did not truly follow the conversation. He had stopped eating and was now staring into the depth of their fire. Shadows danced across the big warrior's face giving it an even more gaunt appearance and a shudder passed through his body.

On an impulse Vilkas reached over and ruffled his twin's long hair. It might not longer be filthy, but it was dripping wet and hopelessly tangled, the knots beyond the help of a comb.

“Your hair looks like something had nested in it.” Vilkas deliberately chose one of Tilma's old sayings. “Do you want me to cut it?”, he asked his brother.

The man in question only nodded, he was obviously too exhausted to talk. But for the moment at least he had been successfully distracted from whatever memories that haunted him.

Vilkas rocked forward with a groan and got up, legs almost buckling beneath his own weight. He'd love nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes but he made his way over to the cart where Lydia had piled all the saddles on top of one another, the group's belongings falling out of their respective bags messily. The Companion's eyes hurt by just looking at the disarray. He did not criticize the housecarl's work; actually he was damned glad somebody else had done it and Lydia had to be just as tired as the rest of them. Vilkas briefly thought that she would make a great Companion and yawned. He rested his head against the side of the cart, the wood rough against his temple. He needed a break, just a little while and he'd - his eyes drifted shut....

Something, nay, somebody knocked on his breastplate. Vilkas straightened with a sharp intake of breath.

“Anybody home?”

“What?” It came out as a long, drawn-out yawn and not the curt question the Companion had intended it to be.

“ _I said_ ”, Wulf replied and the intonation told Vilkas that his friend must have been repeating himself “Do you want me to help you out of your armour?”

Strange, that the offer did not sound like some innuendo for once. It was easier to keep upright once the heavy breastplate was no longer weighing him down. Vilkas felt a cool wind through his sweaty clothes and became conscious of how hot he had been under all that solid steel. The cold helped him feel more awake, though he also knew that it would not last.

“What are you looking for?”, Wulf asked with even more exasperation than before.

“I wanted to trim Farkas' hair”, Vilkas explained and tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Don't cut off his head”, Wulf advised. He turned towards their cart and stopped short, cursed and pointed to the wrapped corpse. “We should move...Skjor...to the other draft horse.”

He made a good point there, Vilkas had to admit. Farkas would not be happy to ride next to the remains of his friend and mentor and neither would anybody else. Not even the horse that snorted and danced a few steps to the side at the smell of blood. In the end they managed to secure the body and all the Companion could think of was how _wrong_ it looked, slung over the beast's back like a sack of potatoes.

A hand was waved in front of his face and he tore his eyes away from the sight. “I’ll find the shears. You go and take a bath.”

Vilkas did not argue. Feeling the limp weight of a dead body and all the...parts...that belonged to it had been enough to make him wish for a cleansing scrub. His friend did not appear to be half as affected by it as he himself was. Quite to the contrary, Wulf only wiped his hands on his trousers and proceeded to fumble through their belongings.

But for the Companion it had been a new experience, and one that he would have been happy never to make. He never had to tend to a corpse before, despite having made quite a lot of them. But those lowlifes had never been worthy of a single thought after, and he and the other Companions always had been happy to leave them to rot. Despite their last argument, Skjor had been friend. Nay, he had been more than that. A shield brother. Family. Vilkas half-wanted to rip open the linens and convince himself of the fact that it really was him underneath, that this was not just some terrible fuckup and the real Skjor was still somewhere inside Gallows Rock.

He didn't though, conscious of the fact that he would dearly regret such an act. He did not want to see what the once proud Legionnaire had been reduced to – a broken body, a pile of rotting meat. It was too...degrading.

It was Vilkas' turn to shudder. He should not feel repulsion, but he did.

He could recall the bier Askar, the former Harbinger, had been laid out on. The priests had already tended to his body, but even then there had been nothing peaceful about the scene. Askar did not look asleep to Vilkas, pale and unmoving as he had been, he had looked dead. The young lad had understood the difference, knew what it meant when they gathered around the Skyforge, why on that day strong men and women cried openly and without shame, why Farkas sniffed into his shoulder. And, maybe because of it, he had been too scared to shed even a single tear.

Years later, there had been no funeral for Jergen.

 oooo

Farkas' head swam. Maybe he had gone mad inside that cell and this was all just a crazy dream. After all, how else could one explain that Wulf had returned from the dead and had been made Thane? And that his brother was here, safe and unharmed and it was the Silver Hand who was dead? Could it really be?

The Companion pinched the back of his hand. It hurt. And it changed absolutely nothing. He was still sitting in the forest, in front of a fire, wrapped in a warm blanket. He had had a hot meal. His second one in four days. It was like a dream come true. If this was madness, then Farkas was going to enjoy every moment of it.

Vilkas appeared next to him, with scissors in his hand. He was speaking, but the bigger twin found that he understood about every third word of what his brother was saying. He nodded his head, because it seemed like a good idea. Then, the next thing he noticed was locks of his dark hair falling down. One landed in his lap and he picked it up, twirling the hair between his fingers. He was glad to be rid of it.

He did not know why, but it mattered. He wanted it gone, the hair and the filth and the memories. He'd settle for the first two, because in spite of the state he was in, Farkas knew that he would never entirely be rid of the last one.

Some time later, he heard a low chuckle.

“What's so funny?” Farkas dimly understood that it had something to do with him. To be laughed at hurt, more than he had expected. It came too close to those treacherous thoughts he had had when imprisoned.

“Remember when we used Vignar's black ink to paint on beards?”, came Vilkas' soft reply.

As if Farkas would ever forget that day when the old Companion had thrown the biggest fit ever and dragged the two culprits before Kodlak, who had stared at the two boys for a full minute without twitching a single muscle.

_“Oh, dear”, the old man had sighed, the words promptly followed by a cough. And another one, until his face turned red and tears began to trickle out of the corners of his eyes. “Oh, this is not good at all.” Vignar had stormed out in anger a moment later, swiftly followed by the Harbinger, leaving the dumbfounded boys behind. Only later through stories did they learn that Kodlak had sought out Tilma, shaking with laughter so badly he had difficulties drawing breath._

_“Dear Gods, what did they do this time?”, the old woman asked, clasping her bony hands together._

_“Go in and see for yourself”, the Harbinger chortled and let her deal with the situation, still holding his cramping stomach._

_Tilma had returned a while later, her composure coming from experience that she had acquitted by dealing with the Companions for decades. Kodlak was surprised to learn she had let them go without as much as a lecture. “They made their beds, now they are going to sleep in it”, was the only thing the old lady had said, shaking her head. It wasn't like they could scrape the ink off the young rascals' faces, anyway._

_The twins had been ecstatic to have escaped punishment and strutted through Jorrvaskr, drawing roars of laughter from the warriors everywhere they went. It was rather confusing. Beards were meant to be imposing and intimidating, not to be laughed at! With heavy hearts the boys had to admit that Vilkas' masterful plan had failed somehow._

It was as if that part belonged to another man, a happier, carefree man. “Yes”, Farkas admitted in a small voice.

“I-“, his brother began, scratching his neck in discomfort “You may look like then. Just the tiniest bit”, he comforted his twin who raised fingers to rub them across the patchy beard he had left.

“Only because your brother is a terrible barber”, a woman spoke up. Wulf had introduced her as Lydia.

“I never did it on another person”, Vilkas defended his work. A heartbeat later the scissor were taken out of his hand.

“Here, I’ll do it”, the housecarl offered.

The last time a woman had approached Farkas with a something sharp he had lost two of his nails and had almost had his eye gouged out the time before. He could not stop the panic from rising. It must have shown on his face, because Lydia stopped before she could reach him and a frown appeared on Vilkas' brow.

“What's wrong?”, his brother asked, concern evident in his voice.

A question he could not answer. Not now. Not yet. Farkas shook his head, trying to suppress the fear; shove it down before it could overwhelm him. He could not explain and he could not look his brother in the eye, just shook his head, wishing they would all go away and leave him be at the same time dreading being left alone.

He drew his knees up and slung his arms around them, trying to protect himself. From what he could not tell.

There had been enough questions he had not been able to answer. This was just one more, wasn't it?

“Farkas?” Vilkas would always reach through to his twin, even if nothing else did.

“It's nothing”, Farkas mumbled, feeling blood rise to his face. He was being stupid again. Vilkas wouldn't let anybody hurt him. He had come to Farkas' rescue, just as the warrior had feared he would. And to give in to the fear would  be like admitting that Krev had won.  The Companion closed his eyes, so he wouldn't have to see the look of pity on his brother's face. He knew he was in a wretched state. There was movement to his right.

“I promise I won't make a mess out of it like your brother”, Lydia assured Farkas in a kind voice as she sat across from him.

“What do you know about shaving, anyway?”, Vilkas protested a moment later.

“Women shave”, Lydia retorted. “We like being indulged and pretty sometimes and treat ourselves to a bit of luxury, you know, and not being mistaken for hulking, mannish brutes.”

“Yeah, Vilkas wouldn't know about that”. Wulf's voice, laced so thickly with amusement, the smirk was audible, rang out somewhere to Farkas' right.

The Companion opened his eyes again when he heard the housecarl snigger and his brother harrumph. It was such a normal scene, it took his breath away. The way Vilkas began to needle Lydia, Wulf throwing in snide remarks from time to time, directed at either of them, and how she rolled her eyes, knowing that the Companion could not see her with her back turned to him. It was almost as if they had known each other all their lives. It felt friendly. Safe. The fear receded somewhat.

Farkas let their voices wash over him. He sat, almost trance-like, heart and mind racing. The steady clip of the scissors and the sensation of a blade being dragged across his skin were far from soothing, but they did not want to make him run screaming for the bushes, either.

Lydia wasn't Krev. There was a hardness around her that came from being a warrior, but no cruelty. He could smell the difference and he could trust that sense even if his own eyes deceived him. The wolf was never wrong about people, and nobody here meant him any harm. And that was a most comforting truth.

“There”, Lydia proudly announced after a while. “All done.”

They packed up not long after, loaded he rest of their belongings into the cart, tied their horses to it and and climbed in themselves. Farkas sat huddled next to his brother who stretched out, head pillowed on one of the saddles and groaned when his back popped.

Wulf raised his head when his housecarl sat at the front of the cart and took the reins in hand with a long-suffering sigh. “Lydia, you are the best.”

Next to him Vilkas snorted with something akin to disdain. “You only said that because you did not want to drive yourself”, the Companion remarked.

“Shut up”, came the muffled answer as the wagon lurched into motion.

Farkas curled up, unmoving but wide awake and marvelled at the sights, sounds and smells around him; everything from specks of light that danced across his brother's form to the carefree trilling of the birds that dwelled in the green canopy above him.

Even though the light gave him a painful headache, Farkas could not close his eyes. He was too afraid of waking up back inside that dark cell. He wanted to see the leaves move above him and feel the wind on his skin. Because he was alive and not a prisoner himself and Krev was dead through Farkas wasn't entirely sure whether that was true. It seemed just too good.

 oooo

They followed the road that would lead them to the Mixwater and then back, to Whiterun. They were still in the forest when the shadows began to lengthen and they set up camp for the night, ‘they’ being mostly Lydia and Wulf.

Farkas wanted to help, but had no idea what to do and even less energy to actually do it. So he remained in the cart, forgotten for a while and watched the others work. His brother lent a helping hand here and there, but Farkas could see the way his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He wondered that maybe he wasn't the only one who had not slept for days. He could not bring himself to eat more during their evening meal, but eagerly drank the cold, clear water that Wulf had filled their waterskins with.

There was no campfire tonight, as nobody wanted to stay up. There had been a short, but intense debate about whether they should establish a watch, but it ended when Wulf reticently mentioned that he had made sure the parameter of their camp was safe. A short while later he and Lydia retreated to their tent and silence settled over their little encampment.

The twins shared the cart and the black sky above them. Farkas began to shiver, the events of the past hours finally catching up to him. Everything around him was a blur, but he could not close his eyes. The images that awaited him whenever his lids dropped were ones of imprisonment, torture and death. The echo of Skjor's screams still rang in his ears.

But there was one person who could chase away the Companion's nightmares.

Farkas lay motionless for a long while before he reached a decision, grabbed his bedroll and dragged himself a few feet over to where Vilkas was sleeping. He only sought for the comfort that his brother's proximity always brought – when they had been pups he had used to sneak into his twin's room and bed, often after listening to some of Vignar's tales. He had loved listening to them, but in the dark of the night they had scared him.

It had not been Farkas' intention to wake his brother, but Vilkas had always been a light sleeper. He appeared surprised to find his twin once more sharing his sleeping place, as they had not done in many years. “What's wrong?”, he asked.

“I can't sleep”, Farkas whispered back. Strange, that it had never been Vilkas with his insomnia who had said those words. He did not explain because it was enough for his brother to understand him.

In the dark Vilkas grasped his twin's hand and gave it a strong squeeze; a rare sign of affection from the otherwise distant man. Farkas hissed when the touch sent a stab of pain through his hand, but did not let go.

“You're hurt.” There was concern and compassion in his brother's voice and it hurt that he was worried.

“It's nothing.” And it wasn't. The missing nails still made Farkas' hand throb from time to time, but the pain was easy to ignore. Easier than the guilt that was eating him from the inside. He had to confess to somebody, and his brother was the sole person on Nirn whom he trusted enough. But not today. He would have to deal with what had happened, but it was too soon, the memories too painful, the fear too real.

“Vilkas?”

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me a story?” It was stupid and childish, but Vilkas did not deny his wish, nor did he chide him for keeping him awake.

For his brother Vilkas would do anything. “How about Yngol and the Sea Ghosts?”, he asked and felt Farkas' nod, the tale about Ysgramor's first adventure in Skyrim an old childhood favourite.

It was the first story Vilkas told, but it was followed by many more until his voice was raw and hoarse and the body next to him stopped shaking. Every time Farkas dozed off, he shot upright a few minutes later, looking around wildly. His brother pulled him back down, rubbed his back and began the next tale. It went like this almost until dawn, when at long last, Farkas passed out for good. Vilkas soon followed suit.

 oooo

On the second day it began it snow, great feathery puffs that fell from the iron-grey sky in white whirls that obscured view and toned the world around them to black and white. The temperature had dropped as well, but that was well, as the cold kept the dead body frozen.

One of their horses died as well. It went so quick; nobody realized what was going on until it was lying on the ground, lifeless. Their mad dash to Gallow's Rock must have been too much for the poor beast. Skulvar would probably think twice before he sold another one of his animals to the Companions.

They spent two days in Mixwater, waiting out the worst of the snowstorm and knowing full well that it could last for weeks. Thankfully, it did not and they could continue, albeit slowly because the horse drawing the cart through over a foot of fresh snow had to be relieved regularly. Other than a spontaneous snowball battle between Wulf and Lydia, that soon enveloped the twins as well, nothing exciting happened.

As she had said, Aela did not catch up to them.

 oooo

Farkas awoke with a start when some particularly irritating insect tried to crawl into his ear. He had spent a week resting, eating and going back to sleep again and was still weary, felt clumsy and slow and dozed off at odd times, but the haze that had clouded his mind had lifted. He was free. He was alive. Vilkas would never fall into the Silver Hand's clutches and Wulf had only been unconscious down in Dustman's Cairn.

Life was good, a part of him said, the part that lived in the presence and was closest to the beastblood. Speaking of which, Wulf had recounted the tale of his unfortunate turning and Farkas was sure that most of it had been made up. But Wulf was now one of the pack, of that there was no doubt The Companion could smell the wolf in his friend's blood, but something was not right; it was not unlike a sickness, the smell that underlay it, except that it held none of a disease's unhealthy tang. It was familiar too, but the more the big warrior tried to focus on it the more it escaped him where he could have picked up the scent.

It was frustrating, so he tried not to ponder it too much. His present company helped a lot in that regard. Farkas was sitting in front with Lydia, reins in his hand. He enjoyed driving the wagon, as it gave something useful to do and it was easy to let himself be distracted by Lydia. Farkas liked the brunette woman. She was cheerful and unintrusive and did not remind him every waking moment of what he had gone through. He liked being able to forget for a while, lean back and listen to her chatter. Even if she did talk a _lot_.

But that was fine by him. Wulf talked a lot too, when in the mood, and there should be laws against half of what came out of his mouth. And Farkas was not even referring to the insulting of various private parts of the Divines or the creative suggestions for the use of everyday objects.

No, it was Vilkas who was the problem. Currently his twin was dozing; he too had a lot of sleep to catch up upon. It meant that for a while his twin was free of his constant – mothering, for lack of a better word. Farkas was perplexed by his brother's radical change of attitude. He had enjoyed the comfort his twin had offered him on his first day out of Gallows Rock and was grateful to have a sibling that was willing to take care of him, but it all became too much eventually.

The twins had had a fallout a few days later, when Farkas could not stand having Vilkas fret over him anymore. “I'm fine”, he had growled at his brother, shoulders hunched and refusing to look at him. “Stop fussing.” It had been grating on his nerves, the constant hovering, the questions if he was alright. He loved his brother, but he wanted the old Vilkas back, the one who would grumble and complain, if only because it would have given their journey an air of normality. Instead he had this worried stranger with his fake cheerfulness who barely left his side for the time it took him to relieve himself.

Farkas felt bad for the way he had reacted, obviously he had hurt Vilkas, who had retreated and not spoken another word with anybody for the entire day. He knew that his brother only meant well, but at the same time he could not stand being smothered any longer.

Farkas did not want to be treated differently, because that made him feel different. Segregated from the others. Alone.

Wulf summed it up rather well one evening, declaring that he did not like Vilkas' new outlook on life one bit and, please, could he stop being insufferably nice and go back to being the grumpy bastard they all loved and missed?

Afterwards the Companion was so cross with Wulfryk he outright forgot to be angry at his brother.

The plains came in sight first and several days later the city of Whiterun itself was outlined against the cloudless blue sky. It was a sight Farkas did not think he would ever see again.  Jorrvaskr.  Home.

 

xxxx

 

The first sign that something was terribly wrong were the whispers that accompanied them through the city, and the covert looks, the pointed fingers quickly hidden whenever one of the Companions turned a head.

“Where have you been?” Athis' cold voice greeted them from at the top of the stairs when they arrived at the mead hall. The Dunmer was standing with his arms crossed, an unusually serious expression on his face.

“We had business to take care of”, Vilkas responded just as grimly, bristling at the verbal attack of a whelp on three Circle members.

“I hope it was important”, Athis said “Because you weren't here to defend Jorrvaskr.” He let that statement hang in the air before resuming “We were attacked by the Silver Hand. We fought them off, but...” The Dark Elf trailed off. Even angry as he obviously was with them for some reason, he was not cruel and the news he had for them was devastating for the twins.

The Harbinger was dead.

And not just Kodlak. Vignar had lost his life in the attack as well as Brill, whose last deed was to throw himself between a Silver Hand warrior and an already wounded Ria. The Imperial woman sat huddled next to Wulf as she told him everything that had happened in their absence.

It had been a day like any other when all of a sudden there were screams tearing apart the quiet of the night. The whelps had jumped up and armed themselves, but there had been no time to dress. They had stormed out of the dormitory in various states of undress ranging from a completely naked Torvar to Ria in a nightgown.

There were noises coming from the stairs and Tilma's quarters. It took a while to sink in that they were under attack and by that time they were already racing down the corridor, fearing the worst. The Companions found the housekeeper not only alive, but also two of their adversaries down and dying.

In a desperate attempt to fend off the attackers the old lady had grabbed a pot full of boiling stew from the fireplace and hurled it at them. She had saved her own life and also that of everybody else; it had been the wailing ohe burned men that had awoken the sleeping warriors.

Still, the remaining Silver Hand put up a mean fight. In the end the Companions had prevailed. The price they paid was high and their victory hollow, and the Silver Hand leader escaped unharmed. Tilma's burned hands would heal in time, but Torvar's leg was shattered and he would end up with a stiff knee and never walk without a heavy limp again. Ria lost half her hand in the fight and Njada was still in Kynareth's temple with a bad concussion and a broken jaw. Athis was the only one to escape unscathed.

“He went up in fire”, Ria whispered. “That was really scary.” Despite how her lower lip trembled she tried to sound brave when she talked about her own injury. “It's just my shield hand”, the Imperial remarked with feigned indifference.

“Ria Halfhand doesn't sound half bad”, Wulf snickered and she too tried to smile and ended up laughing and crying at the same time. “You're still my favourite Companion”, he assured her, ignoring that his shirt was being stained with tears and snot. She needed that hug.

The next days were nothing if not crazy and Wulf kept busy by staying out of everyone's way. He had not seen much of Farkas, who had completely withdrawn or Vilkas, who looked harried, hurrying to and fro, trying to catch up with all the work and tasks that suddenly piled up in front of him.

Wulf exchanged a couple of words with Aela when she returned, but after learning of Kodlak's death she too wanted to be left alone.

Wulfryk ended up in Jorrvaskr's courtyard on a comfortable deck chair with his journal. It was quite warm, the furs he used to cover his legs with were thick, there was no wind and the white snow reflected the light of the sun. It was peaceful and he enjoyed being alone until Vilkas dragged a chair over and plopped down on it backwards, propping his chin up on the back rest. They did not talk, taking pleasure in a moment of quiet.

Of course, it did not last.

A guard approached them at a brisk jog. “Thane Wulfryk?”, the woman called out, respectfully inclining her head once she caught up to them.

Wulf looked up, as did the man beside him. “Umm. That’s me?”, he ventured uncertainly.

“The Jarl wishes to speak to you. And your housecarl.” She next addressed Vilkas. “Companion. If you would come as well -?”

“Of course”, the big warrior replied courteously. It would be most rude to ignore the Jarl. The Companions might not partake in politics but they still were citizens of Whiterun and as such the law applied to them as well, even if Balgruuf was happy to leave them to their own devices most of the time. However, Vilkas understood the Jarl's desire for a conversation and quite possibly an explanation in consideration of recent events.

They picked up Lydia and walked up to Dragonsreach, the guard leading the way. Once they arrived she held open the door and then left to return to her position.

Balgruuf was not sitting in his throne, but at one of the long tables that stood before it. They were loaded with food and he beckoned for them to step closer. So this was not to be a formal affair. The three were far from the only guests, however. It was common knowledge that the Jarl dined with the people in his employ, servants and soldiers alike. It was one thing that made him such a popular ruler amongst the simpler folk. Today though, an entire table was reserved for Balgruuf's family, his housecarl, steward and court wizard as well as Wulf, Lydia and Vilkas himself.

The Jarl rose to greet them, grasping Vilkas' right arm in a gesture of friendship.

“Before we begin, please accept my heartfelt condolences.” The Companion had expected him to mention Kodlak, but one never could really brace himself for a talk about the death of a beloved person. A father when he and Farkas had needed one, a shield-brother, a patient teacher and a guide in difficult times.

“Our thoughts and hearts are with you at this time of sorrow. Kodlak was a great man. He will be missed sorely.”

“Thank you”, Vilkas replied gravely. His heart was heavy, the pain of loss still fresh.

“I know that pretty words are no consolation in the face of your grief.” Balgruuf was no stranger to the emotions the Companion was visibly struggling with. He had lost his own father and his wife had died giving birth to their youngest child. “But know that although he passed on, he shall not be forgotten.”

They sat down at the free places and the Jarl sighed heavily. “I cannot believe it”, he admitted. “Kodlak had been Harbinger for longer than I Jarl.”

“The funeral ceremony shall be held on Fredas, if you wish to attend”, Vilkas informed the other man, not sure how to address that last comment.

“Yes, and now let us speak of it no more.” They would grieve together at the last rites. Afterwards the doors of Jorrvaskr were open to anybody who wished to pay their respects. Then, after five days had passed, there would be a feast in the name of the departed, followed by music and the telling of tales. The dead were to be remembered for the deeds they accomplished in life and Kodlak's were many and impressive, though with Skjor and Vignar dead only Eorlund remained to remember some of the earlier ones. Since Vilkas was now responsible for the Companions' chronicles he hoped that the smith would share all he knew so that he could write it down, eternalize it in their history for future generations of Companions.

His thoughts were drifting, Vilkas realized and tried to shake himself out of the melancholy mood that had suddenly taken hold of him. He reached for the food and piled some on his silver platter. Silver. Vilkas almost shuddered.

Thankfully, the Jarl did not notice anything. He even apologized for keeping the future Harbinger from his duties. He knew that the timing was poor, but he was in need of answers.

 _The future Harbinger._ It was a responsibility that had always loomed over him, but somehow it had never seemed real. I still didn't. ‘They would come for advice’, Vilkas thought in a flash of well concealed panic. Beneath his tunic he began to sweat. Except for Balgruuf's children and Lydia who was close to his own age, he was the youngest man at the table. Even Wulf was older and, if one believed but a fraction of his stories, had travelled half the world. What did Vilkas know?

The Jarl's attention moved on to Wulf, who had piled his food high with delight at the unexpected dinner. Thane and Harbinger. Somewhere, no doubt the Gods had a good laugh. Distracted as he was, Vilkas did not catch the greater part of their exchange, only the end.

“...I must address the matter of your housecarl breaking out of prison”, Balgruuf said.

“Uh”, Wulfryk faltered for only the fraction of a heartbeat. “I'm afraid that was necessary”, he told the Jarl. “You see, she...she had to find me...and there was no time for explanation. The wounded guard shall be reimbursed generously, of course. None of this would have happened, if not for my sword.”, Wulf finished, sighing dramatically for effect.

“What happened to your sword?”, the Jarl asked, the question piqued with curiosity.

“I forgot it”, Wulf promptly answered with a nonchalant flourish of his hand.

Heads turned with disbelief at the bold proclamation. “You forgot to bring your sword on a hunt for a werewolf?”, Balgruuf enquired with evident disbelief.

“Yes”, Wulf replied with a shrug. He looked perfectly comfortable now that he had thought of some yarn to spin and popped a pastry into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “After killing that dragon I did not think a wolf would be much trouble.” He scrunched up his nose, the perfect picture of a man regretting an unfortunate decision. “I was wrong. That's why Lydia had to break out of jail. To bring me hers.”

Vilkas felt something cold pass through him as he watched his friend lie straight to the Jarl's face without as much as batting an eyelash, enjoying every moment that all the attention was on him. It was a pile of rubbish yet everyone around him seemed to swallow it. Hrongar roared with laughter and pounded the grinning Thane on the back, calling him a crazy son of a snowtroll and Irileth turned her eyes towards the ceiling. The Companion heard her silently mutter ‘ _men’_.

“What keeps me wondering is why she was accused of being in league with the monster, and by one of the Companions no less”, the Jarl mused once the commotion had died down and his brother stopped shouting obscenities, waving his hand to catch the attention of one of the servants.

“Because he had taken a knock to the head?”, Wulf offered, gladly accepting the ale from a serving woman. “Happened to me once. It took the priests two days to convince me that I wasn't Sheogorath's cat.”

“Aye”, Hrongar threw in. “A strong blow will do the strangest things to a man's mind.”

“You are a seasoned warrior and obviously know of such things”, Wulf prompted, insult thinly veiled in an innocent smile.

“That I do”, Hrongar agreed with a solemn expression on his face.

In that moment Lydia learned that the nose was not a suitable conduit for wine. Poor Balgruuf choked on some morsel and continued coughing until Irileth slapped him on the back. Hrongar was utterly oblivious and turned to Vilkas with a frown “What's with them, eh?”

“I - ”, the Companion found himself at a loss for words. How to explain? “Don’t know”, he finished lamely and felt the blood rush to his face. Wulf winked at him, but his next words directed to the Jarl were serious again.

“It killed him.” A pause, leaden with implication followed. Vilkas could almost hear Wulfryk say ‘ _As if losing Vignar and Kodlak was not bad enough.’_ He wasn’t the only one, judging by how many people shifted uneasily in their seats. “At least Skjor did not have to live to see his two dearest friends die in the attack.”

And, as simple as that, the Jarl's question had been deflected, and a new, safer topic laid out before them. The Companion would have admired Wulf's smooth evasion, were he not addressed by the Jarl himself.

“Speaking of it, what prompted the attack on Jorrvaskr?” Balgruuf looked expectantly at Vilkas who swallowed nervously. He looked briefly for Wulf, hoping for his friend's help, but the other man was engrossed in a discussion with the Jarl's brother that involved a lot of pounding one's fist on the table. No help was coming for him from that direction.

“We – we had a quarrel with an enemy group of the Companions, after they slandered our name”, Vilkas almost faltered at the lie, but followed through after only the briefest of hesitations. They were already too deep in it to back out now. And, as always, it was Wulf's fault.

“They could not withstand us as men. Kodlak believed that was the reason they entered an unholy pact with witches. It turned them into werewolves”, he explained, but seeing the somewhat panicked look on the Jarl's face, Vilkas rushed through the next sentence to placate the other Nord. “But we killed the head of the order and most of the followers.”

Except for those in the field, hunting or trying to recruit new members. Somebody would have to take care of those as well. Aela would be more than happy to, of that the Companion was sure.

“Fine”, Balgruuf finally gave in, rubbing his brow. “I see that your actions were necessary. But you should know that some guards were hurt in the chase.” Apparently he did not want them to get away quite as easily.

“By the werewolf?”, Lydia enquired, her eyes wide.

“Not directly, no.” It was Irileth who answered instead in that tone of wry amusement so particular to many Dunmer. “One was almost trampled by a cow, another one twisted an ankle and the third suffered a heavy concussion when he fell down the steps. Furthermore there were several instances of sprained limbs from collisions and quite a lot of bruises.”

When she finished the entire table had fallen silent. Balgruuf actually looked sheepish as he cleared his throat and muttered “At least the beast was slain.” The Jarl's cheeks were flushed and not from wine when much more firmly he stated “Nobody died and that is all that matters.”

Well hidden from everyone else by their cups, Irileth and Lydia exchanged grins, the older woman's teeth flashing white in her dark face. She leaned closer to her former protégée and whispered “Never let power get to their heads.”

Lydia giggled.

As the end of the meal neared, Balgruuf called upon his steward and officially announced Wulf''s promotion to Thane of the hold. Wulfryk politely declined his offer of a weapon, his own sword made by Eorlund better than anything the Jarl could provide, but everybody, and no one more than the new Thane, was surprised when he was given a house as a gift. A small one, in the lower part of the city, just an alleyway below the marketplace.

“Breezehome”, Proventus called it, his voice a dull monotone, as if he was reading an official scroll.

“Breezehome?” Wulf did not sound enthusiastic at all, his eyebrows rising. “Let me guess”, he drawled “It comes with a great supply of fresh air?”

Balgruuf noticed his Thane's lack of interest with worry, wondering whether he had insulted the man they knew next to nothing about, except that the chances were high he was a legend come to life. The Jarl did not waste time in making amends. “It is a gift for your services, as is your title. Should you wish to purchase other property, more befit of your standing, Proventus will be more than happy to make the necessary arrangements.”

Proventus looked anything but happy about it, and Wulf had to wonder what in Oblivion he was going to do with a house, let alone two. It would need taking care of and...housy things. His own home in Elsweyr had been hewn in rock, as were all the houses of the clans that lived in the Red Rock Desert. One room with a fireplace that Wulf had not bothered lighting in all the time he had stayed there, a bed made of furs on the floor, a chest to store his belongings in and a low table with a few bright cushions strewn around it. It wasn't comfortable or pretty, but it had been no more than a place for him to sleep in, the interior always cool thanks to the thick stone walls. Back then the days had been for sleeping through the worst heat and when the temperature dropped after nightfall, the desert and its inhabitants came to life.

Here, Wulf was content to stay in Jorrvaskr, the dormitory was all he needed, although with and him technically being a member of the Circle he was entitled to having his own room. He could always rent the house or sell it if he found no other use for it.

“Thank you”, Wulf answered, remembering his manners in time. “I was just – overwhelmed. I never expected such a grand gift”, he added with a disarming smile that had the Jarl nodding with satisfaction.

Vilkas left Dragonsreach with a full stomach and a bad conscience, trailing after his friend and Lydia as they made a detour on their way back to Jorrvaskr to look at Wulfryk's house.

Breezehome turned out to be rather nice and in a surprisingly good condition despite its unpromising name and having stood empty since the last owner had moved out. It had to be thoroughly cleared and furnished and Wulf commissioned the steward with the work, who was willing to oversee it for the Thane.

 

xxxx

 

The funeral was held two days later. By the time the three bodies were carried to the Skyforge, more than half of Whiterun had already passed through Jorrvaskr's courtyard. It was declared a day of mourning by Balgruuf who was present, standing a little way off, to Wulf's left. He would partake of the ceremony and cremation, as well as all the members of the Grey-Mane clan, except for Thorald who was away fighting in the war. Even a few Battle-Borns remained, Jon amongst them and on this day the differences between the two families were laid to rest.

The peace held, probably partly to Farkas' declaration that the first person to mouth off could eat his fist.

The Companion's eyes were rimmed in red and Wulf knew that it was because he had lost the man he had loved as a father. Over the heads of the crowd he could see the top of Vilkas' head, but little more. He shifted his weight from foot to the other impatiently, felt the weight of the bottle inside his coat press against his side. Looked around and suppressed a yawn. Wulf had chosen the place at the far back, though he could have had one at the very front had he insisted. But he had barely known Vignar and never befriended Skjor and Kodlak had been too sick by the time Wulf had arrived for them to get to know each other, his entire time devoted to finding a cure for the Circle's lycanthropy.

But by the amount of people who had come to take their leave from the Harbinger and the snatches of conversation he overheard Wulf knew that the old man had been respected and loved by all. He had been a leading figure, closely involved in everything that had happened in Whiterun. His wisdom and advice had often been sought out and he had settled many a dispute, and this did not even include his deeds on the field of battle. Wulf would get to hear those later, at the feast. He actually regretted not having spent more time with the Harbinger, who had almost completely withdrawn from the public nigh on two years ago.

He was not forgotten though, and the people of Whiterun mourned his passing, none more than the twins. It had gotten dark in the meantime, and that made reading his fellow Companions' expressions almost impossible, but Wulf picked out Farkas' heavy breathing and he was sure he saw Vilkas raise a hand and wipe at his face. Ria was crying with her face buried in Athis' shoulder and there were wet streakes on Njada's face, through with her broken, bandaged jaw she could not do much more than that. Wulf had spotted Torvar a while ago, standing awkwardly with one leg stretched out before him, patting a weeping Tilma on the back and dropping his crutches alternatively.

Eorlund attracted his attention when the smith stepped forward, torch in hand. Though not a member of the Companions himself, he had been chosen to speak the ritual opening words of the funeral speech that dated back to the days of Ysgramor. “Before the ancient flame – ”

“We grieve”, answered the others. Wulf did not lend his voice to the chorus.

Aela stepped forward next, her eyes resting on Skjor's body. Her voice was quiet, but strong. “At this loss – ”

“We weep.”

“For the fallen – ”, Vilkas continued.

“We shout.”

“And for ourselves – ”, Farkas spoke the closing words.

“We take our leave”, the other Companions said in unison.

The pyres were lit and Eorlund began to work the Skyforge's bellows, stroking the flames higher.

Wulf watched the fire and the smoke billowing upwards, feeling only a slight unease. With the old man dead and no cure in sight he was stuck being a werewolf. Bollocks! That had not been part of the plan at all.

He shifted from one foot to the other again, wondering how long he was expected to attend.

The people that had meant something to him he had buried with his own hands, no fancy words spoken, no stories shared unless it was one of his fellow guards and they knew something besides the name. Even then it had been just the other warriors around a campfire, and a couple of bottles of mead being passed around.

And often as not it had just been him, his regrets and a shovel.

Nothing that came close to this, no speeches, no feast, no grieving friends and relatives. There were no accounts of the departed's deeds, except for his own lousy journal and no marked grave anybody could pay his respects to, just a hole in the ground hopefully dug deep enough to keep the scavengers from getting at the body.

Wulf felt his mood sour further. He did not see Kodlak, Vignar or Skjor. He did not give one sodding wet fuck about either of them; there were enough ghosts in his past as it was. And that's where he would have liked to keep them. Remembrance was one thing, but this was pointless, he thought, looking at the tear streaked faces all around him. It was poking around in a wound to prevent it from closing. He'd need to be half drunk to amiably deal with all the grieving people around him without giving them a piece of his mind. He'd better get started.

Wulf pulled a bottle of hard liqueur from his coat and took a healthy swig, ignoring the cross looks and wrinkled noses around him. He fucking hated funerals with a passion. All the ceremony and food of the feast afterwards couldn't hide the fact that this was a parting. The Khajiit had it right, in his opinion. _Fusozay Var Var_. Life had to be enjoyed, not wasted on the dead.

To him sorrow was a private thing, buried somewhere deep and hidden behind a meaningless smile, not something to be shared with a group. It seemed perverse, to be gathered here just so everybody could indulge in feeling miserable.

Wulfryk shifted again, tiled his head back to stare at the heavens. A shooting star painted a short red line across the sky's endless canopy.

Wulf wished for a bowl of hot, spicy Elsweyr Fondue.


	29. BTS

The Companions and the other mourners withdrew into Jorrvaskr after the funeral. Soft murmurs filled the mead hall as people milled around and talked in hushed voices. It was so unlike the usual boisterous laughter that usually rang out here that Vilkas almost felt like a stranger in his own home. He had lost count of the amount of hands he had shaken, the condolences he had received. Faces blurred together as he made his rounds, not because he wanted to, but because it was his duty. Because it was expected of him and had he ever done any less?

Vilkas felt eyes drilling into his back. He knew who his silent watcher was, the one who eschewed social obligations with ill grace and absolutely zero care for anybody else's opinion. Sometimes the Companion wished he could be that person.

In a dark corner he confronted Wulf. The other Nord was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, present and observing, yet not participating. Vilkas' grey eyes were trailed on the bottle he held negligently by its neck. It was less than half full now – and it hadn't been filled with mead or ale, either.

“What do you think you are doing?” It came out angrier than he had intended it to, but then he was angry. Why, he wasn't sure when moments ago there had only been a numbness, a strange detachment from everything that was going on around him. Grief had a way of wearing people out and there had been too much of it lately. But it was customary to abstain from alcoholic beverages until the feast that would be held five days from now and it was infuriating to see someone break with it in such a blatant show of disregard for tradition. Not to mention that he could use something to drink as well.

In answer, Wulf waved the bottle in front of his face, making the liquid inside slosh around until Vilkas slapped it away, almost knocking it out of the other man's grip.

“The people notice!”, he hissed, not wanting to raise his voice and draw attention to them.

Wulf raised his head a fraction of an inch and pointed his chin at one of the tables. “If they have any complains they can take them right up to the Jarl”, he replied with a low rumble that was nothing like his usual sarcastic drawl. “Or the Harbinger”, he added with a snort and took another swig.

“Who are you so bloody angry at?” Vilkas' own irritation evaporated to be replaced with perplexity. After all their time together and despite knowing each other for over half a year he did not understand the other man. What drove him, what went on in that messed-up head of his – not even his motives for joining the Companions. It was as maddening as it was unsettling.

Wulf calmly turned to regard him, his motion slow and careful due to his intoxication. “Not you. So don't make me.”

The warning hung in the air, for once delivered without any mocking amusement.

Vilkas was not going to risk making a scene, not today of all days. He swallowed his initial reply and grit his teeth, before he reached over and plied the bottle from Wulf's fingers.

“Give that to me!” One of the two of them had had more than enough and it wasn't him.   A quick look around the room confirmed that nobody was paying them any heed. To Oblivion with it all. The Companion took a healthy mouthful and a sharp, slightly fruity taste assaulted his senses as the liquid burned its way down his throat. Firebrand Wine. He returned the now almost empty bottle to its owner, feeling a mild admiration for the fact that the other man was still capable of standing upright after what he'd gulped down.

“Just behave yourself”, Vilkas cautioned, exhausted all of a sudden and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Hopefully, nobody would smell the drink on his breath.

The smile he got in return was as sardonic as it was insincere. “Of course.”

And, surprisingly, he did.

Because the rest of the evening passed without further incident, Vilkas was willing to let matters rest. As long as Wulf did not disturb the mourning period and kept his mouth shut, he would not let himself be drawn into another argument. The Companion had enough on his mind without having to deal with the other man's shit, too.

‘ _Coward_ ’, a soft voice whispered in his mind.

 oooo

Vilkas was unanimously voted Harbinger in the Circle meeting on the following day.

The first thing he did was to abolish the ritual of the sharing of wolf blood. “There will be no more turnings”, the Companion announced, fixing a stern gaze on his three shield-siblings. His brother just nodded along, unusually quiet after the events of the past days. Wulf shrugged. Aela straightened in her seat, ready to defend the ‘gift’. Vilkas held up one hand to stall her. “Not unless the person has been informed of all aspects of the curse and is still willing to”, he finished.

“The Circle have always been werewolves!”, the Huntress maintained. “You cannot just breach centuries of tradition!”

Funny, how he had thought the same, yesterday. He had broken it back then as well.

“They have also always been five in number”, Vilkas countered. “Yet today we are but four.” What had their proud order come to? They were eight in total; as close as they had ever been to dying out. The Companions would have to begin some heavy recruitment, and soon. Vilkas now saw why Kodlak had insisted upon accepting even the lesser promising candidates. They could not allow themselves to be picky now, or their pride would be their downfall. The lesson stung.

He and Aela argued back and forth while the others mostly watched on. They agreed that if somebody was adamant about taking the beastblood he should be allowed to do so. It was said person's choice, not theirs. Furthermore, they settled that it was only fair and prudent to come clean with the candidate. Maybe the recent event of her friend's turning going bad had helped Aela see reason. She still put up some resistance, but not with nearly as much fervour as she would have a few months ago.

Probably, Skjor's death had taken some of the fight out of her. Vilkas felt a flash of guilt for exploiting his shield-sister's weakness, but he firmly believed that it was for the best. For the Companions and the poor sod about to fall to the allure of the ‘gift’.

Where their opinions differed, however, was whether a non-werewolf should be allowed into the Circle. Aela was strictly against it, while Vilkas argued that they might not find anybody willing to join otherwise. Farkas was silent and Wulf twirled a piece of charcoal between his fingers. He was looking somewhat hung-over and it was a fair bet that everybody in the room had noticed, yet no one commented on it.

They broke up their meeting without having resolved the matter, agreeing only to resume tomorrow.

Vilkas knew that Aela raised a few valid points. First and foremost was the fact that it was difficult enough keeping their being werewolves a secret. He found it hard to believe that nobody had noticed anything _odd_ about them.

And herein lay the crux of the problem. What would they do if anybody found out? It was one thing, knowing that somebody had a secret; it was quite another being privy to it.

The Circle members had always been werewolves because keeping their identities hidden, close as they were, was nigh on impossible. And it could be overwhelming, sometimes, the beast. Sharing it with trusted friends helped in many ways. It was the very way the Circle had come into existence – wolves just weren't solitary creatures. The lycanthropes had been a few elite warriors amidst the Companions, their bonds of friendship and the burden they bore tying them closer together than just being shield-siblings did. Over time, those fighters' prowess ensured that they were looked up to by the others, and they were entrusted with making certain decisions. Kodlak had told Vilkas all about how the Circle had first come into being. There had been nothing like it before the Companions had been cursed.

The following day their debate began as unpromising as it had ended the day before. It was quite possible that the issues hit too close to their hearts for them to find a solution. Years of friendship and camaraderie and the exact knowledge of each other's opinions didn't help, either.

After three hours of futile talk Vilkas felt like tearing out his hair. Farkas supported him, because he always had, but refrained from joining the discussion.

Aela tried to win over Wulfryk for her cause. “What do you think, Wulf?”  If she hoped for support from her friend she was looking in the wrong place. The Huntress' argument that the Circle members had always been lycanthropes fell on deaf ears.

Vilkas looked at the other Nord as he put down the same piece of charcoal he had been toying with yesterday and drummed on the table before replying. “If you did it for the sole reason because somebody a few hundred years ago thought it might be a good idea then it's no wonder you got screwed over by the first organized band of mercenaries you came across.”

“That’s –“, Aela began.

“Not the answer you wanted to hear?”, Wulf supplied. “Too bad.”

It was as close to a fight as Vilkas had ever seen him pick with Aela. He had been under the impression that the two of them got along rather well. Something else was bothering the Companion though, a question that had flared up at the other Nord's words. _It’s no wonder you got screwed over_.

“Don't you mean ‘we’?”, the Harbinger burst out, surprising them all. “Or don't you consider yourself a Companion?” It was, after all, their misfortune, the deaths their loss. A careless statement like this, along with Wulf's behaviour at the funeral made Vilkas wonder, and not for the first time, whether the other man felt any attachment to them at all.

The dark haired warrior gave him a long, pointed look and leaned back, balancing his chair on its hind legs. “I was merely here and helped clean up”, he said, addressing the ceiling. “This entire fuck-up didn't stem from _my_ actions.”

_What are you not telling us?_

Here it was again, that feeling that mayhaps they were not friends after all, but rivals. And apparently some other dark truth was being dragged into light, kicking and screaming and clawing to get back into the darkness. Vilkas was sick unto death of such revelations.

He dreaded whatever was coming and even Farkas had raised his head at the pronouncement, confusion evident on his face.

Aela though...it only took one glimpse to confirm that she knew exactly what Wulf was talking about. Her fingers were white as she clutched the edge of the table. “How did you know?” By all means, she seemed to have forgotten the rest of her shield-siblings.

_Know what?_

“Aela?” When she did not react, Vilkas repeated himself, carefully, but not relenting. “Aela."

She faced him then. Lifted her chin. “We hunted them”, she confessed. “The Silver Hand.” As if it wasn't clear whom she was talking about.

“What!?” He had understood her perfectly, but could barely believe what he was hearing.

“Skjor and I, we – last year, we began to hunt them down.” The Huntress did not show any remorse at her deeds. Now that she had been forced to come clean with them, she did so without hesitation. Charged right into it, as she might into a battle.

Vilkas felt cold. “Kodlak _told_ us not to engage our enemies”, he forced out, through clenched teeth. The old man had been quite clear about it, too. There were not enough of them to deal with a serious threat.

“Kodlak was old”, Aela replied coolly.

“Dammit woman! He was weak in body, not in mind!” The shout carried through Jorrvaskr. Vilkas' outburst surprised even himself. He rubbed his face, breathing hard. The calm came, eventually. Farkas' hand on his shoulder helped in no small amount.

Divines, why did he, of all people, have to deal with this? Harbinger. What a joke.

How could he live with these people, his shield-siblings, his _family,_ and know less than Wulf who had been with them for only, what, eight months? Had he grown so accustomed to looking away? All this time that Skjor had neglected his and the whelp's training, all the talk about ‘hunting’. It made sense.

Now Vilkas understood what had spurned their enemy into taking the offensive. The trap and the assault on Jorrvaskr had not come out of nowhere; the Silver Hand had not attacked on a whim. They had been provoked into action. If not for Skjor and Aela's actions, would they still have acted as they had? Would they have captured Farkas? Maybe. Probably not. But if they had, then the four warriors would not have been able to deal with their full numbers. Their shield-siblings decimating them was the main reason their victory over the Silver Hand was even possible.

Were they the victim or the offender in this entire mess?

Vilkas' head swam.

“Are you going to lecture me now?”, Aela enquired, voice shaking. She appeared shaken, and as badly as Vilkas had ever seen her, outside of Gallows Rock. From the corner of his eyes the Companion saw Farkas shake his head just the tiniest of fractions.

“No.” The fight had gone out of him and he slumped in his seat, feeling empty now more than anything else. To think that he had always looked up to his elders...it was strange to be disappointed by them. As if he was entitled to some form of – obedience.

The consequences of Aela's actions were punishment enough. He wasn't going to rub salt into her wounds. The bitter tang of betrayal would not go away anytime soon, though.

“But I have a task for you.” All eyes were trailed on Vilkas now, who resisted the urge to shift in his chair. “That boy, what was his name?”, he asked and supplied the answer himself when nobody answered. “Jolgeir. He said he had been recruited by a woman. There must still be members Silver Hand out there. I want you in charge of finding and taking them out. _Especially_ the bastard who got away.”

Finish what you have begun.

“Yes, Harbinger”, Aela replied meekly. The tone did not suit her at all.

“We will kill every last one of those bastards”, Vilkas offered as reconciliation. He was tired of all those internal conflicts. If things could only go back to the way they had been when he had been a kid. The Companions he remembered had been a force to be reckoned with. United. Vilkas wanted them to be like this again.

He did not expect to receive a hug after how things had gone down. But he did and squeezed back and tried to let go of the resentment. In the end, they were family and only had each other.

“Thank you”, Aela whispered, the words for his ears only. Grateful, but not sorry.

They had come no closer to resolving the question whether somebody without the beastblood should be allowed to join the Circe, Vilkas realized long after their meeting had broken up.

 oooo

“That was one of the shittiest things anybody's ever done to me.”

Wulf looked up from his journal to find Aela standing over him. He had heard her approach but didn't think that she would be willing to talk to him. He put the quill back into the inkwell.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe you shouldn't have lied to them in first place?”, Wulf asked, genuinely curious.

“And that's coming from you...” Aela shook her head, her expression hard to read behind her war paint. “How did you know, anyway?”

“I overheard you and Skjor talking in the Underforge, remember?” It had not taken long for him to piece together the parts, just as he knew they intended to turn him before anybody had said as much as a word to him. For all the attention he garnered it was surprising how easily he was often overlooked. Maybe it was his fondness for dark, shadowed spaces.

Aela nodded and sighed when she heard the answer. “Of course. I should have known.” Wulf wondered if it was too optimistic to hope that any of the disgust in her voice was directed at herself for not figuring it out sooner.

“And now you can make up and start with a clean slate”, he pointed out. “Was it really so bad?”

He received a hard stare in answer. Well, he had certainly earned it. “Forgive me for not thanking you”, Aela replied stiffly.

“For whatever it's worth: I'm sorry. For ratting you out”, Wulf clarified, “Not for telling Vilkas the truth. He has a right to know.” It had been going on under his very nose, but the Companion had been unaware of it nonetheless.

Her cold demeanour didn't soften, but Aela shifted uncomfortably. She had to have known that keeping up the cloak-and-dagger was going to come up and bite her one day. Especially if everything she had done had gone against Kodlak's explicit instructions. Vilkas had his work cut out for him if he wanted to assert himself as the Harbinger. He could do well without people undermining his leadership behind his back.

“Yes.” She looked away and Wulf wondered why she was here in first place. He learned a few heartbeats later. “I wanted to say I’m moving into Skjor's room. You can have my old one, if you want to.”

That certainly was unexpected. “Thanks.” Wulf appreciated the gesture, he really did.

The Huntress left with one final nod in his direction.

 oooo

The next days were tense as all the warriors of Jorrvaskr anticipated and feared the grand feast they would hold in Kodlak's honour. It would be another event where the doors of the mead hall were open to all who wished to participate. And that list was long, of that there was no doubt.

After moving out of the dormitory Wulf mostly spent his time with the whelps, playing cards with Torvar and Athis and visiting Njada in the temple. She was quite a nice lass when she could not open her mouth to talk. He trained with Ria who was the only one willing to practice her swordsmanship, determined not to let her injury stop her. A fire had begun to burn in the Imperial woman that had not been there before.

And they did everything they could to help Tilma. Even so, it was a relief when Balgruuf sent them his own cook and three servants. The whelps were promptly released from their service by Tilma who had a much better qualified staff to order around now. Four days later the food was laid out on the porch where it wouldn't spoil in the cold – and because there wasn't sufficient space indoors. Where the resources for the celebration had come from was a mystery to Wulf.

There was still the matter of Jorrvaskr's nonexistent funds to address, but so far Vilkas had not mentioned the issue to any of the others. Wulf retrieved a bottle of ale for Torvar who was becoming obnoxious now that he could no longer walk – he'd better enjoy the fetching service for as long as it lasted and walked over to join Athis and Njada who seemed to have a silent competition of glares.

Slowly but steadily guests began to trickle in. The feast was everything it had promised to be. There were more courses than anybody could keep track of, and more mead still. It took a while for everybody to get in the right mood, but once they were, countless voices were raised in song. The noise of everybody talking was so loud that the musicians gave up on playing entirely until a few drunk guests hollered at them to pick up another melody.

Wulf spotted Vilkas running around with a pot of ink and a quill, desperately trying to write all the stories he was not familiar with yet. Njada sipped a watery soup through a straw, watching the others stuff themselves with longing in her eyes. Farkas talked to Lydia in a corner, their heads bent together. They had grown close after the Companion's rescue from Gallows Rock. The housecarl had come to visit a couple of times and it wasn't Wulf she wanted to see.

The Nord's eyes wandered over the crowd. Ria danced with Athis and Eorlund with Tilma and Torvar too hopped around, pretending that one of his crutches was his partner. His performance was hilarious to look at and Wulf suspected that the Companion had been practicing the steps in secret. There was an air of hysteria to their merrymaking, but even so it was better than the mood of the past days. They were still going strong by the time the sun rose.

Hrongar was draped across some red haired guard that turned out to be a friend of Lydia's and they both were crooning in high-pitched voices. The song, or ‘abomination of music’ as one of the bards had referred to it before he left indeed sounded like a bad parody of a sabrecat's mating yowls.

“Still better than Mikael”, Athis smirked and his words won him Carlotta's attentions.

Wulf was glad when Balgruuf's brother dozed off with his head on the table. The Jarl himself was asleep in an armchair and was snoring thunderously, his head hanging over an armrest, circlet askew and mouth wide open. One of his children shoved a sweetroll in and the snoring stopped.

Somebody wrapped himself around Wulf's arm.

“Hiya! I'm Signy”, Lydia's friend slurred. “Did you know I helped her break out of prison?”

“Yes, I had heard”, Wulf replied amiably. _Four times._ He handed her off to Vilkas who passed by just then and chuckled at the Companion's futile attempts at getting rid of her.

Oh, yes, it was a party as only Nords could throw, the wild, out-of control kind that happened when somebody had died.

And then, once everybody had sobered up and left, the formalities were over and there was a lot of cleaning up that needed to be done. Life went on, somehow. Winter was fully upon them now, but for the Companions it was a busy time. Despite the cold weather, Wulf barely spent a week in Jorrvaskr. Vilkas sent them out on any mission that had to be done. They had to keep up a strong presence now and the earnings were much needed to pay off their debt with the temple.

Wulf journeyed, first with Ria and then with Athis. The Dunmer grumbled and complained about the temperatures, the gales of wind that felt like somebody was stabbing their faces with needles, the ice that made footing treacherous and the snot that was hanging from his nose in a frozen icicle.

“A bit longer and you'll look like a sabrecat”, Wulf sniggered. Clumps of snow had frozen in his short beard, peppering it with white, but overall he was not bothered by the cold as his friend was.

When the Dark Elf asked how Wulf could not be affected by it, the Nord just shrugged his shoulders. He was used to it, though the winters in Cyrodiil had been much milder. Everywhere except in Bruma, that was. And he had not even had a cloak back then, not until a kind Khajiit merchant that he had befriended gifted him with one. He'd always been healthy, but then sickly children did not live long.

Wulf liked being alive and he liked the cold. It was sharp and it hurt and it made one feel alive. Athis shook his head when he heard his friend's reasoning. Maybe it was a Nord thing. But the chill in the air made you want to move and stomp your feet and the cold conjured a rosy colour on everybody's cheeks. People ventured out of their houses and into the taverns to crowd together and share a cup of hot mead or mulled wine.

It was heat, such as had always had been present in Elsweyr, that sucked all life out of the people. There was nothing to do except lie around in the shade until nightfall and try not to get sunstroke.

“Please, stop”, Athis begged when Wulf began to speak about the desert. He held a small magical flame in his shaking hands and made the other warrior promise not to tell the others.

Another errand took Wulf and Aela across the plains, almost to the border of Whiterun. They made peace during the long journey, but their friendship wasn't like it had been before. It lacked something that had been there before. Maybe it was trust.

Lydia accompanied her Thane on many assignments. Her presence in Jorrvaskr was accepted without any objections. Not even Vilkas could find something to criticize her for; not when she trained with the warriors and ate and drank with them. She fit in. After a month she as good as belonged with the Companions anyway. From her Wulf learned that he had a trip ahead of him. The Greybeards, a group of old, wise men known for their ability to shout at each other and the rest of the world, wanted the Dragonborn to visit them. Joy of joys.

Wulf wasn't looking forward to the trip to their cloister, but he sensed that it was not something he could just talk himself out of. He would travel as soon as winter came to an end; trying to climb the world's highest mountain in a snowstorm did not strike him as a very good idea. It was Jarl Balgruuf, who truly put the fear of the seven thousand steps into him. He talked at great length about his trip to High Hrothgar when he had been a lad, about the peacefulness of the place and detachment from the rest of the world.

All Wulf heard was ‘ _Seven bloody thousand steps_ and _dull_ and _you'll trip once and slide right down to the bottom_ ’. At least the descent would be quick.

“Ah”, Balgruuf sighed. “I envy you. Nothing would please me more than another chance to look down at Nirn from the Throat of the World. The view is breathtaking.”

‘If it pleases you so much’, Wulf thought ‘Then go there yourself’. “If you say so, my Jarl”, he said.

He was glad to escape from Dragonsreach and into Jorrvaskr. He ran into Farkas and Torvar on his way to his room and bid both a good night. The two Companions were the only ones who got left behind in the mead hall on a regular basis. The latter because he couldn't go anywhere without his crutches and the former...

It was complicated. Farkas had refused to touch his sword since their return; he often moped about and did not join their evening talks. Hopefully Vilkas would do something about it as soon as he returned, because nothing the others did or said helped.

He blamed himself for his friend's death, it was as simple and twisted as that. There was nothing any of them could make to help him feel better. And they'd tried to coax him out of his self-imposed isolation; every one of them. Farkas only moaned how he should have listened to Wulf back in the crypt. How nothing would have happened if only he'd not been so _stupid_ and how Skjor still might be alive.

_Could have, would have, should have._

Wulf had had enough after minutes. “Skjor's death was nobody's fault but his own and the Silver Hand's”, he responded with more force than necessary. He hated seeing his friend like this. And, Wulf knew that if he'd managed to get his friend out of Dustman's Cairn, the entire fiasco would not have happened in first place.

Farkas' eyes grew wide. “His own?”, he asked, anger clouding his words and voice rising.

Good, at least here there was a different emotion from the everlasting misery, and one Wulf knew how to deal with to boot. “Of course!”, he answered. “You are not the only one who made a bad decision! Don't blame yourself for the mistakes of others.”

“How can you say that? You almost died because of me!”, Farkas insisted stubbornly.

“I almost died because somebody put an arrow through my guts; and it wasn't you!”, Wulf retorted. “And don't change the subject!” Pussyfooting around the problem wasn't going to help, it never did. He briefly wondered why it always fell to him to slap others with the truth.

If he had hoped for a reaction, he got one. “You don't know what they did to him!”, Farkas cried, the dam bursting at last. “What she did!”

Actually, Wulf knew pretty well. He had seen the corpse. He refrained from mentioning that.

“He was taken prisoner, what could he have done!?”, the Companion raved, pacing back and forth.

“And what could you have done?”, Wulf shot back. Skjor could always have chosen not to play the hero on his own. He could have forced the Silver Hand to kill him, or done so himself. There was always a choice.

 oooo

The first thing Vilkas noticed when he dragged his sore carcass into his room was that the practice dummy was gone from its place at the wall. The second were the noises coming from his brother's room. Strokes, rhythmic and fast and the occasional grunt to accompany the muffled thuds.

The Companion rested his head against the wall for a moment and prayed that his twin wasn't demolishing his room. He should not have put off talking to his brother for so long. Something had worked Farkas up enough for him to pick up his sword. Vilkas thought he knew what – or who – had done so. If the change was for the better or worse remained to be seen.

He cautiously walked over and opened the door to his brother's room. It was hot and stuffy and an odour of sweat hung in the air. In his fit of rage Farkas had taken apart the strawman; no easy feat with a dull blade.

“I think he is dead already”, the smaller man said to draw his brother's attention.

Farkas had heard him, because he lowered the sword until the tip rested against the floor and cocked his head. He didn't turn around though, but stood with his back to Vilkas, shoulders heaving.

“Are you alright?”, Vilkas carefully enquired.

Farkas turned around then, only to roar ‘NO’ at the top of his lungs. “Nothing's _alright_!!”

Vilkas was stuck dumb by his twin's sudden wrath, but thankfully his warrior's reflexes kicked in when his head had taken a time-out and he ducked when Farkas send ten pounds of metal sailing through the air and past his head. He had never seen his twin show such unbridled fury before. He would be lying if he said it didn't scare him.

“You don't understand!”, the big warrior yelled, after a deep breath. “None of you do! I was glad!” His voice began to break. “I was fucking glad they picked Skjor and not me!” By the time he finished, he was no longer shouting. His eyes, wide and panicked refused to meet his brother's. Vilkas wasn't the only one who was afraid that very moment.

“So am I.”

The confession stunned them both into silence.

“I wouldn't ever exchange your life for Skjor's”, Vilkas whispered. “Never.” If Farkas had feared that his brother would judge, he couldn't have been further off the mark.

The Harbinger swore that he felt his twin's crushing embrace through his armour. Farkas had no idea of his own strength. Not just the physical one. Vilkas could not say whether he could live through what his brother had and remain sane. He held onto the only family he had with as much power. It truly hit him then, the realization.

_I could have lost him._

“I keep dreaming about it”, Farkas admitted in a strangled voice. “About her. I hear his screams when I close my eyes. I wake up, thinking I'm in that damned cell. She came to ask questions. Said she'd stop if I knew the answer. I never did.”

Was this what this was about? Maybe they should never have made fun of the big warrior, but it had never bothered him before. If Vilkas needed to drive home the point once and for all, then he would do so. “You are only stupid if you truly believe that it would have made a difference. You talked a Silver Hand into helping you, Farkas. Who else could have done that, but you?”

“You're just saying that to make me feel better”, Farkas replied bitterly.

“No, brother. I'm too tired to be smart.”

“Why don't you let me go with the others, then?” Farkas had let go and was now intently searching his twin's face.

“Because...”, Vilkas knew he had to tread carefully now. “Because you are not yourself. It's through no fault of your own, but...can you promise to be fully there when your shield-sibling needs you?”

Farkas looked down, and away. His lack of confidence was as frightening as his anger had been a moment ago. “I don't know.”

“Nobody blames you”, Vilkas sighed. How many times was he going to have to repeat himself?

Farkas' answer was a humourless snort. “I blame myself.”

“Tomorrow we are going to spar, you and I”, Vilkas decided. “It will help you clear your head.”

“That's what I always say.” Farkas appeared surprised to have his own wisdom used against him.

“See?”, Vilkas pointed out. “You don't give yourself enough credit. We'll get you back in shape first, and then we'll get out, just the two of us. What do you say?”

“I'd like that”, Farkas admitted in a small voice.

“And if you have any trouble sleeping, you can always come over”, Vilkas offered. “I'll read the Digests of Cyrodiil to you. I have found them to be a miracle cure against insomnia.”

For the first time since his capture, Farkas laughed out loud. Once he began, it was difficult to stop and Vilkas felt himself being drawn in, unable to resist.

After a long moment of sniggering at each other like mindless imbeciles he bent down to pick up Farkas' blade from the floor. “You ruined that sword”, Vilkas stated. “I’ll let you explain to Eorlund”, he decided and chuckled when his brother groaned in response. “And have him teach you the difference between a sword and a javelin. It seems you were not paying attention during lessons.”

They sat together for the greater part of the evening, their backs against Farkas' bed and bottles of mead in their hands. There was not much left to say, but the quiet was companionable this time instead of oppressing.

“You know...”, Vilkas began after a long while.

“Hm?” His brother's grunt was soft, barely audible. He sounded half asleep.

“You owe me a new practice dummy”, Vilkas finished and reached over to pick the bottle out of Farkas' limp hand, putting it safely atop the bar.

He decided to stay for the night, just in case.


	30. BTS

Mornings in Jorrvaskr were an odd thing. Unless there was an emergency the warriors woke and got up whenever they wanted to and shuffled upstairs for breakfast. There were various kinds of undress and messy cases of bed-hair and a lot of yawning and eye-rubbing going on. Quite often most of the shield-siblings weren't in the mead hall at all, but today everybody was accounted for. It seemed they had indeed managed to work off all the excess jobs that had been collecting dust in Vilkas' ledgers.

If anybody mentioned ‘paperwork’ to Wulf at this hour, he was going to set them on fire. He grabbed a bowl and poured himself some oats and milk with a spoonful of honey and sank down in the next free chair to eat. The sounds of the mead hall washed over him, the clank of cutlery, the hissing of the fire, a scrape of a chair. It all had become familiar. Jorrvaskr was home now, as much of one as he had ever had. It was a strange feeling. Wulf didn't like being tied down to a place. But, just for once, he did not mind.

Next to him Aela, who was always bright and chipper in the morning, chatted away with Torvar who sullenly nodded every now and again. The warrior's leg was no longer splinted, but after so much time he still needed crutches to walk. It was becoming more evident that the damage dealt to his knee and shin was permanent and he was not taking it well. Torvar had been drinking a lot lately, no longer the smiling, cheerful man he had been when Wulfryk had joined the Companions. His dour moods and constant drunkenness made everybody around him tense.

Wulf looked to the left, not really interested in what the Huntress had to say to the Nord.

At the short side of the table Athis was making fun of Njada, waving a finger in her face and at her bandaged jaw. “I think it's quite an improvement”, the Dunmer stated, his voice rising over Ria and Timla's loud conversation, as the old maid's hearing was not as good as it used to be. He got himself punched in the face in the next heartbeat.

The doors opened again and the twins entered, Vilkas taking a seat at Wulf's other side and Farkas opposite his brother. The table was much too big for the few remaining Companions, Wulfryk noticed. He grunted his greeting at the newcomers and thankfully they did not try to engage him in their talk, by now familiar with his habitual morning irritability.

Farkas piled a selection of cold meats and cheeses on his plate, along with half a loaf of bread. It had not taken the big warrior long to regain his appetite. Vilkas' nose was buried in a book that probably contained Jorrvaskr's accounts while he unsuccessfully tried to fork an elusive boiled egg.

When he had finished eating, Wulf just leaned back and observed the others.

And this was one of those strange things. Nobody was required to socialize, yet when there was time to sit around and talk with your shield-siblings everybody was present and enjoyed the camaraderie whilst waiting for work to be distributed.

The conversations died down when Vilkas rose. His speech was short and the message a surprise to all. “We have no more assignments that need doing.”

The small book he had been reading earlier landed on the table and the Harbinger heavily sat down again and swept some food off his brother's plate instead of reaching over to get his own. Farkas protested loudly, but it was drowned out in the cheers that followed Vilkas' announcement.

Business usually was slow in winter and great parts of it were spent in a drunken stupor out of sheer boredom, but this year it had passed in the blink of an eye. The first resilient mountain flowers were already poking through the rapidly melting snow and the days were once more growing longer. With spring at hand everybody expected that more pleas for the Companions' help would arrive before long, maybe even with the next post coach.

In the meantime every one of them could use a break to regain their strength. The constant work had worn them out and tempers had begun to flare once more. Not to mention that getting into fights when tired and distracted could prove to be fatal. Wulf planned on being lazy. He had to brush up his skills after so much labour. A man had a reputation to uphold.

Aela took Ria out on a leisurely hunt and Farkas took the seat the Huntress had vacated.

“You were right.”

Wulf rolled his eyes. “Of course I was.” After a moment he realized he had no idea what Farkas was talking about. “Eh, what was I right about?”

The big warrior's reply was to kick his chair from under him, but he reached out a hand to help his cursing friend back to his feet. Wulf declined Farkas' offer of a reconciliatory mug of ale. He suspected that the warrior was just looking for excuses to hang out in the Bannered Mare with Lydia. They got along just fine without him.

Wulf used his time to wander around the city instead, wondering what he could have been right about. After how busy they had been lately it felt strange to have some free time just to himself, away from his shield siblings. His feet took him through the Cloud district, then down the stairs to the Temple of Kynareth. Wulf was not much for prayer and piety and preferred for the Gods to leave him alone, but lying on the bench and looking up at the bare branches of the Gildergreen was peaceful.

Or, it would have been peaceful, if only Heimskr would shut up. Somebody had to do something about the priest. Wulf figured he was as good a person to do the job as any.

“Aren't you afraid somebody will rat you out to the Thalmor?”, he interrupted the doomsayer.

“I have no fear”, Heimskr laughed. “For Talos is my ally and I am his prophet. He is my keeper, my shield. He will let no harm come to me, for I spread his word!”

“So the more you shout about Talos the more he protects you?”, Wulf summed up. He was rather sceptical about the concept and quite sure the priest would have troubles explaining it to the Thalmor.

Heimskr though beamed up at him from beneath his hood. “Exactly!”

“Huh.” ‘There is no arguing with a fool’, was a popular Khajiit saying. Wulf left the priest, the square and the dying tree, passed by Amren and Saffir who were arguing about the Redguard's father's sword as they had done for as long as Wulfryk had known them and made his way to the market.

A snigger drew his attention to two guards warming their hands at a brazier. “So, what does the Thane do for the Companions?”, a brown haired soldier with a plain face asked. “Bring them their mead?”

His friend laughed, a warm rich sound that did not carry any malice despite the taunting.

Wulf snorted. He was no tavern wench to fetch somebody's drinks. “Drink it is more like it”, he replied good naturedly, ambling over to the brazier. It had been too long since he had rubbed the right person the wrong way. Flexing his muscles a bit at the challenge could not hurt.

“The whelps are allowed real beverages?”, the flaxen haired guard who had laughed before teased.

He had quite a fetching face, despite a scar cutting through his eyebrow and across his cheek. And a nice beard. Wulf decided to play along. Bored guards could make for wonderful entertainment. “No”, he sighed. “But then I _am_ a member of the Circle.”

“How...?”, Blondie did not get any further before his friend butted in.

“It usually takes years...what did you do?” Their surprise was genuine; Wulfryk had not even considered that his acceptance into the Circle was completely unknown to anybody outside of Jorrvaskr. So much had happened in the meantime.

“To be honest”, Wulf winked both men closer and, with his best shit-eating grin, he whispered “I slept my way up.” The looks on their faces were certainly worth it.

“Through whom?” Blondie recovered more quickly, a spark in his eye that let Wulf know he was onto his game. His friend, on the other hand, looked absolutely dumbstruck.

“All of them, of course”, the Thane feigned a look of innocence that would have anybody who knew him well backing away slowly. “Except Kodlak”, he added. “And Skjor, he didn't swing that way.”

The first soldier, apparently a great deal slower than his comrade, opened and closed his mouth a couple of times and finally admitted “I never knew the Companions did that.”

“What? Hold orgies?” Wulf might claim that he had practiced the art of bullshitting to get himself out of trouble when in need, but in truth it was the exact opposite. It was moments like this when he had most fun. “Man, have you never heard any of the howling?”, he asked with false disbelief at the man's thickness.

Blondie snickered again, hiding his chuckles behind his fist. Time wrap this up before he gave away too much.

“Actually, we could use somebody”, Wulf stated and made sure both men got his lewd grin. “For fun.” He reached out and slowly ran his fingers up the closer guard's chest plate, to his exposed neck. The brown haired man frowned, obviously mulling over the offer.

“Let's just say the girls really know how to wear a man out.” Wulf winked at Blondie who grinned back almost shyly. Definitely interested, and Wulfryk would be lying of he said he wasn't as well. “Bring some friends and talk to Aela if you are men enough.” He turned to leave, stopped and added “Oh, and don't forget to mention the Colovian Milk Sandwich, otherwise you won't get in.”

 oooo

When Wulf returned to Jorrvaskr in the evening a very interesting scene unfolded before him. He saw three guards talking to Aela who looked like she had not yet had any time to bathe after her hunting trip. He wanted to approach to hear what all this was about, but then her eyes went wide and he had an inkling what was going on. Better to stay out of the range of her hunting bow.

“Orgy? Orgy!?” Aela screamed so loudly, she could have been a mistress of the Voice herself. She spotted her friend above a soldier's shoulder and bellowed “WULF!!!”

It seemed an expeditious retreat was in order. Wulfryk turned tail and fled, laughing all the time. He snuck back into the mead hall half an hour later, after he had seen Aela leave, probably to hunt him down.

A pity the blond scarred guard had not come; he could have used some company.

“Hello, Wulf.” Ria looked up from her card game with Torvar when the Nord in question stumbled over a rolled up carpet.

“My favourite Companion!” Wulf could be charming when he wanted to. Buttering up Ria was easy, but that might be because she was a lot more easygoing than her shield-siblings. “How was the hunt?”

“Exhausting”, she answered. “I didn't see anybody come in, right Torvar?”

“Right”, Torvar grunted. “But I ain't promising I won't give ya up when Aela comes asking. Broken leg's bad enough”, the warrior slurred and took a swig from an almost empty bottle.

The Imperial woman smiled impishly, before asking “What is a Colovian Milk Sandwitch anyway?”

Torvar beat Wulf to the answer. “That's when you take a lass and two – or three – men or three guys and they –”

“Alright”, Ria clasped her hands over her ears, dropping her cards and losing the round. “Alright, I get it.”

“If anybody looks for me, I'm barricading myself in within my cushion fort”, Wulf said to no one in particular. Torvar waved at him in answer and swept up the cards to shuffle them.

Wulf did just as he had said he would, making sure to bolt his door shut. Better not to take any chances. A while later his precaution proved justified as somebody pushed the latch down and, when the doors remained firmly shut, knocked loudly.

“Who's there?” Wulf could chance a guess by the mere impatience. There was one person who could convey annoyance through mere knocking.

“Vilkas.”

Wulf opened the door a bit to risk a peek outside. Grumpy didn't look too happy with him, but Aela was nowhere in sight unless she hid behind the big warrior's back and that wasn't likely. “Sorry. It's a necessary precaution”, Wulfryk explained with a shrug at the Harbinger's pointed look at the bolt.

“I take it you are hiding from Aela”, Vilkas muttered.

Wulf stepped aside to let the warrior in and barred the door again. “Your astuteness is, as always, miraculous.”

Grumpy did not crack a smile, but got right to the point. “You can't ridicule the honour of the Companions like that! Not now that we have to fill up our ranks again!”

“Uh-huh.” Wulf leaned against the table, wondering why Vilkas was here. “Honour, work, stalking the wilds after some escaped criminal until your balls freeze off and a chance to get yourself killed when some skeever-bite gets infected. Your recruitment tactics are shit”, Wulf told his friend.  “You need to change your outlook on life. Promise them mead and parties and fun times and they'll file right in on their own.”

Vilkas pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are not a brothel”, he said more forcefully than necessary.

“Brothels are better frequented, the matron is friendly and the inhabitants don't smell like they haven't washed for a week straight”, Wulf countered. “I'm sure Aela pointed their error out to our guests.”

The big warrior sank down on Wulf's bed, buried his face in his hands and groaned. It earned him a chuckle from his friend and a pat on the shoulder.

“Come on, you aren't here to try to talk me into developing a conscience”, Wulfryk goaded and sat down next to the Harbinger, the bed dipping beneath their combined weight.

“No, I'm not.” Vilkas looked nervous suddenly. He got up and paced the length of the room back and forth. “I never thanked you for helping in my brother's rescue”, he finally burst out.

“No, but I remember you blamed me for his capture.” If his tone had turned accusatory, Wulf still managed to keep up a twisted smile just to peeve the other man.

“I am sorry I ever insinuated -”, Vilkas faltered and began anew “I'm sorry.” He glanced up in time to see a look of exasperation on Wulf's face before it was gone as soon as it had appeared. “I was being an ass”, he admitted, ready to give some more ground.

“Yeah, I noticed”, Wulf snorted. “But you're not beyond help. They say awareness is the first step to improvement”, he drawled, teasing again. A good sign that he was ready to forgive the Harbinger.

Vilkas gave him a hard stare. “You are terrible.”

“ _I know_.”

There was that smile, the one that made Vilkas' breath catch in his chest and his heart skip a beat. He was sure that Wulfryk knew exactly how it affected him. Right now he couldn't say he cared much. “Maybe your saying has it wrong, after all”, the Companion stated somewhat breathlessly.

He found his bearings again a moment later and enquired “How can I ever repay you?”

Wulf blinked, Vilkas appeared to be totally sincere. It was nice to be appreciated for a change. Unusual and Grumpy's seriousness was kind of intimidating, but nice.

“Since you don't have a single Septim you can count yourself lucky I accept payment in carnal pleasures”, he joked. “I expect a delivery later today.”

What Wulf did _not_ expect, was for Vilkas to oblige him.

He did not complain though when the Companion's rough palm traced the contours of his jaw before cupping it and drawing him into a kiss that was a lot more tender than their first one had been. Thankfully there was no armour they needed to get rid of this time. Just clothes and those slipped off with ease when tugged at. Wulf pulled his own shirt over his head, the last garment to join the others on the floor.

The action was made difficult by Vilkas lying on top of him, kissing and nipping his way down his stomach. Their bodies came together with the faintest tang of familiarity and a great deal of passion, pent up over months when they had been too busy to enjoy this. Each other.

Before long both men were covered in a light sheen of sweat, panting as the temperature of the underground room seemed to have risen on its own. For a while it was just the slick glide of skin, contrasted by the rasp of hair, soft moans swallowed in deep kisses and initially tentative touches growing more firm and hurried.

Wulf pinned down Vilkas' hand when it began to wander places he wasn't planning on allowing him this evening. The Companion tried to pull free, but the angle was wrong for him and he relented, impatiently, growling in annoyance.

“You got to be on top last time”, Wulf purred in his lover's ear, comfortable and at ease in his position under the bigger man.

“Strictly speaking that is not true”, Vilkas protested, his hips jerking in search of contact at the memory of the other Nord riding him on the night of their first coupling. Their rocking never stopped, just as Wulf did not let go, his grip like an iron vise around the Companion's forearm.

It was a challenge, he knew. Take it or leave it, he had no doubts whatsoever that Wulf would happily walk out on him if he refused now.

It took more courage than it should have, that tiny nod. But all the anxiety fled in the next minutes, chased away by soft strokes and feather light kisses. Vilkas' dark hair hung down loosely, framing his lover's face and it was easy to be intimate, safe and hidden away from the rest of the world behind that veil. The pounding of his heard never let up though, increasing in speed when two fingers pushed past the seam of his lips, caressing his tongue and Wulf ordered him to “Suck.”

In the end, when they were cooling down next to each other, spend and catching their breath it was difficult to remember why he always was reluctant to receive another man like that. The results were certainly worth the discomfort, at any rate they had been this time. Everything was tinted with pleasure in the hazy bask of afterglow.

At some point in the night, long after they had drifted off, Aela kicked the closed door loud enough to wake up all of Jorrvaskr and proceeded to call Wulf various names, ranging from him being an unmitigated asshat to something about horkers and his mother.

Wulf fell asleep in the middle of her tirade to Vilkas' great amusement.

Some mornings were better than others but what they had in common was that on all Wulf was slow to wake. This time it was almost pleasant; he was relaxed and there was a warm, naked body next to his and the smell of sex still hung in the room, a pleasant reminder of yesterday evening's activities.

“Good morning”, Vilkas greeted when he saw the man next to him stir.

And it was. Wulf rolled on his back and stretched, drawing in a deep breath. He let it out with a sigh and looked over at the dark haired Companion. His pale eyes were stuck to the pages of a book. _Again_. “What are you reading?”

“Kodlak's journal”, the Harbinger replied and lowered the leather-bound book to look over at his lover. With his hair messed up from their roll in the sheets he looked absolutely ravishing.

“Any sign of a cure?” Trust Wulf to choose a topic that was sobering enough to put a damper on any romantic moods faster than a bucket of cold water.

“No more than what we already knew”, Vilkas sighed and completely put aside journal. It was strange reading the old man's thoughts, intruding on memories that should remain private. He did not like that feeling one bit, but if there was something to show them how to end their curse then Kodlak would have wanted him to know. “He wrote about you, you know?”, he asked the man at his side.

Wulf rolled on his stomach and looked up at Vilkas from his crossed arms. “What did he write?”

A few black strands of hair fell into his eyes and the Companion brushed them aside and watched his lover's eyes flutter closed at the touch. “That you are the key to keeping the Companions alive when the tide of our enemies sweeps over us.” A furrow appeared between Vilkas dark brows. “I daresay this had already come to pass.”

An affirmative grunt was Wulfryk's only reply.

“The old man had the foresight, you know?” Many had doubted Kodlak's ability to predict the future and indeed, that was not what the former Harbinger had done. Vilkas himself did not understand until he began to read the jumbled, often incomprehensive shreds of dreams and visions. They could have been ravings of a madman, especially the older ones. But over time Kodlak had developed an understanding of his talent. The recollections became more orderly and there were interpretations and references to past events. As far as Vilkas could decipher it, the Harbinger had seen snippets of things that might come to pass, especially when he looked into the eyes of a person. Quite often, it seemed, the old man himself had not known what those pictures meant. Making sense of the journal was wearying and frequently frustrating.

Vilkas felt fingers ghost over his chest, over his stomach. “The cure is linked to you, somehow”, he told Wulf “And a blond warrior you will bring into Jorrvaskr.”

“Blond, eh?” That only applied to every third Nord or so. Whom did Wulf know? Ralof? He did not think Princess was the answer to the Companions' werewolf problem. Who else? The scarred guard from the day before? Nope. Ulfric Stormcloak? Wulf burst out laughing until Vilkas elbowed him in the side.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing”, Wulf chortled, obviously lying.

Vilkas let it go this once. He was not sure he wanted to know anyway. “I'm worried about Farkas”, he admitted. Their conversation had turned towards rather disheartening topics already and that was one more thing that he needed to get off his chest.

“Mhmm” Wulf's hand wandered lower, blunt nails raking over the Companion's inner thighs.

Vilkas could not believe that he was thinking about sex now, when he tried to initiate a serious talk. “What are you doing?”, he barked at the other man, annoyed at his lack of care.

“Taking advantage of you being naked.” Wulf looked completely focused on his task of fondling the warrior next to him.

“I'm sore and you are not listening”, the Harbinger tried once more to dissuade his persistent shield-brother, whose thoughts were not brotherly at all.

“Uh-huh. Do go on.”

“Wulf, I'm trying to be serious here!” Why did he have to shout to make the other Nord back off? Couldn't he think about anything but his own pleasure?

“Fine!” The hand was gone and Wulf looked royally pissed off as he sat up.

Vilkas found it difficult to return to the topic. He did not want to discuss his troubles with somebody who was glaring at him like that. “Farkas”, he began, because that's who they were talking about and received a curt nod as an answer and an impatient wave of a hand. “He has been moping around a lot lately.”

His brother had been distracted and nervous for two weeks, wandering the plains around Whiterun and avoiding conversation with everybody. The relapse had come out of nowhere as far as Vilkas knew and he feared that his brother only put up a facade about feeling better for their sakes. It broke his heart to think that Farkas was still suffering and shutting them all out, especially when they all believed that he had been feeling better already. There were moments when Vilkas caught him standing with his eyes closed and a painful expression on his face, or when something made his brother shudder, but overall he had believed that his twin was slowly recovering; both mentally and physically. He had taken up training once more and was often found in the courtyard instructing the whelps and he seemed to enjoy it, too.

Wulf did not appear worried, though. “He was getting his courage up to ask Lydia out for a late evening dinner at the 'Mare”, the dark Nord supplied the answer without hesitation. “Does that bother you in some way?”, Wulfryk enquired rather acidly and his friend could feel him gearing up for a fight.

Vilkas shook his head, shocked but pleased. “No. I am happy for him.” But. “I wish he would talk to me more”, he admitted. “I didn't even know.”

Wulf's annoyance evaporated when he heard how hurt the Companion sounded. “He will once he is ready”, he comforted his friend. “I know because he asked if it was fine with me, you know, because she is my housecarl. The distraction probably does him good. If he gets sorted out back at home he'll be ready to go out. You worry too much”, he added with a yawn and a shake of his head.

“Didn't you want to take him out on a mission?”

The Companon nodded slowly. “Yes, but everything I proposed...he says he is not ready to go on a mission.”

Wulf considered his friend's problem for a couple of seconds and suggested “Ask him to show you that dragon he had almost killed.”

Vilkas' eyes went wide and his voice rose once more. “What!?”

“Western Watchtower?”, Wulf reminded him. “Dragon attack? That ring any bells?”

Judging by the curses that followed the big warrior had either forgotten or done a great job suppressing those memories.

“He'll be happy, he was darned proud to help bring down that oversized lizard”, Wulf said, rolling over the Companion and out of bed in a fluid motion. “It was the same one that attacked us on the plains, by the way”, he remarked whilst putting on his pants. He did not bother with undergarments as he planned on taking a bath after breakfast anyway.

His leaving made Vilkas sit up and glare. “Where are you going?”

Wulf pointed at the ceiling and raised his eyebrows. “Upstairs?”

“I thought you wanted to -” The Companion was as close to pouting as Wulfryk had ever seen him.

“Yeah, I'm no longer in the mood”, Wulf cut him short and left Vilkas to brood over Farkas, the journal of a dead man and the rest of the world. He _had_ offered distraction, after all.

 oooo

Vilkas expected his brother to refuse him when he asked to see the dragon skeleton, but to his amazement Farkas did seem enthusiastic about the idea. They decided to set out on foot, the exercise would do his brother good and they were in no hurry anyway. When they were ready to set out, he held out his brother's sword to his twin and after a long moment of hesitation Farkas took it and slung the scabbard over his shoulder with a nod of thanks. The dark moods that he had suffered indeed seemed to have evaporated completely.

Vilkas thought it a safe bet to say that Lydia's answer had quite a lot to do with it.

Both men carried only small and light packs; it was a day's march to the tower that had been destroyed by the dragon and from what they knew Balgruuf had ordered it rebuilt. They did carry bedrolls, some food and water but nothing else except for their weapons. This was not a mission, but a leisurely excursion and the roads so close to Whiterun were well patrolled.

On their way to the city gates the Harbinger greeted Danica and watched Heimskr forcefully scrub at the statue of Talos, buckets of water standing next to his feet. Somebody had dyed the hero-god's beard and ears red. The priest was muttering angrily, but the work kept him too busy to preach. Judging by the guards' unwillingness to investigate they too enjoyed a quiet morning.

Vilkas had to bite his tongue to resist the urge to pepper his brother with questions. He remembered how irate Farkas had been when he had tried to be caring on their way back and he understood that his brother did not want to be smothered in affection and pity. Maybe that was why he preferred to teach the whelps and to hang out with Lydia, because it gave his life an air of normality that the Companions had been lacking for the past year. Vilkas had never seen it from that angle, but once he did it was easier to let his worries go, to enjoy the march. He and Farkas fell into a comfortable rhythm and pointed out the early signs of spring coming back to the tundra.

There were no insects yet filling the air with their buzz, but herds of reindeer were visible far in the distance. In a couple of weeks they would be gone, migrating north where the cold was more to their liking and then the elk and deer would return from the southern woods where they had spent the winter. Then the grasslands would be filled with life, almost excessively so, as if trying to make up for the long, bleak months of winter.

Roughly three hours after midday the twins sat down to have a break, but moved another couple hundred of feet after realizing they were almost atop the skeleton of a horse that was lying in the grass, half buried beneath snow.

They reached the watchtower two hours after sundown and were welcomed warmly by the guards. Farkas greeted a man with an impressive moustache and together they told tales of the dragon's attack well into the night. Vilkas added the story of his own encounter and panicked flight and the soldiers crowded around a brazier, dealing out stew and grog and making all the appropriate sounds at the exciting parts.

“It's just like the ancient legends”, a guard with a blonde braid that reached the middle of her back said. There was a trace of reverie in her voice, mixed with consternation.

“Now that was a battle”, Farkas agreed with a big grin.

For a moment it was silent except for the sounds of logs cracking in the fire as everybody remembered that dozens of good men and women had left their lives in defence of this very tower.

The twins retreated shortly after to rest and Vilkas fell asleep hoping that he would not wake up to the sound of the alarm bells.

 oooo

In the morning he was shaken awake by an agitated brother instead and followed him out of the tower, because he sensed that there was no more rest for him. The enormous skeleton which was lying at the very foot of the tower, but had not been visible from the entrance, was a sobering sight.

“I've never seen bones this large.”

“It looked bigger alive.” There was no boast in Farkas' remark, just a quiet contemplation. “And it was full of spikes, I didn't know where to stab it.”

He then proceeded to recount the battle in great detail, how they had helped a messenger escape on Wulf's horse, and how nothing had harmed the dragon. Vilkas was dragged here and there, to see a crumbled stone structure that the dragon had perched upon and the well Wulf had almost drowned in and finally the top of the tower, where a small section of the stones were charred and glassy.

Molten, the Companion realized. He did not want to contemplate it too closely, since this was where Wulfryk had shouted the dragon down, robbing it of its sight and shattering its wings. Standing here, staring into those empty eyesockets suddenly made it real; the truth of what his friend really was.

“I had to show you” Farkas kept talking, oblivious to his brother's thoughts. “Otherwise you'd just think I was making it up.”

“Why isn't there more left?”, Vilkas asked his twin. The animals cold not have possibly picked the bones of such a large carcass clean in such short time.

“It burned away”, Farkas explained with wonder, as if he was reliving the scene right there. “And then Wulf caught fire and that's when the men started to talk about souls and the Dragonborn.”

“And you?”, Vilkas wanted to know because he knew that his brother usually was the first person to think of the old myths and legends.

“I got my brains a bit rattled”, Farkas replied carelessly “When the dragon knocked me against that stone.”

And then Vilkas had to admire the stone his brother had left a visible scratch in – according to himself. Thus the day passed with more accounts of heroic deeds and another hearty meal in the evening.

Farkas appeared happy and relaxed and Vilkas refrained from berating him about going up against a _dragon_ because he knew that his idiot twin had not wasted a single thought on the danger he had been in, only envisioning the kill.

“How's Lydia?”, Vilkas asked when they were sitting outside, watching the pale light of Silfir make the skeleton gleam in the darkness. He inhaled deeply, savouring the scents around him. Some flower had to be growing under the snow; the fragrance it spread was quite lovely.

His voice must have given something away because Farkas shifted uncomfortably on the tailbone he was sitting on and mumbled something that sounded like ‘fine’.

“How did you get her around?” Damn, but Vilkas had not intended to sound so desperate.

“We just...talked”, Farkas replied with a slightly embarrassed shrug, and plucked a stray blade of grass. “I picked her a bouquet of flowers.” It was a relief to hear that his brother was not angry. Lately he had been easily offended, his behaviour unpredictable and his moods changed rapidlyy.

“Flowers for a housecarl? Wouldn't a bunch of daggers be more to her liking?” Vilkas did not mean to criticize but the idea struck him as funny for some reason.

“She thought it was cute”, came Farkas' somewhat defensive answer. “And some of the flowers had thorns. Why?”

The reply came too fast. “No reason.”

All of a sudden Vilkas found himself under his brother's scrutiny. “Why, Vilkas?”

“What would Wulf like?”, the smaller twin burst out against his better judgement. Damn it. Damn it to Oblivion. Where were his brains, his way with words when he needed it most?

“What?”

There was no way out of it now. Vilkas took a deep breath; the heady scent was making him dizzy. “You're his friend. Well? What would he like?”

A furrow appeared between Farkas' brows. “Why are you? Oh!” So he had figured it out. “You want to court him!”

“No!” He could at least vehemently deny the very idea.

“Yes, yes you do!”

“Yes”, Vilkas moaned miserably, falling back and staring up in the sky. He was so sick of arguing with the other man. They made such a great team when fighting together and things couldn't be better when in bed, but they could barely stand each other the rest of the time. It was driving him crazy. He found himself sitting at his desk or in Kodlak's study, thoughts drifting to the infuriating Nord. It bothered almost as much as repressing his wolf did, only being a werewolf had not troubled him lately. He had been far too distracted by his brother's capture. And by the man who invaded his space, his mind, his dreams even. It was maddening having him so close yet always out of reach.

“I knew it”, Farkas crooned triumphantly.

When had Farkas become the expert on matters of the heart? And why was it suddenly Vilkas spilling his guts? He wasn't the one who needed help! Only he was and his brother had always been so much better at this. Whatever this was. Or wasn't. Because Vilkas wanted it to be.

He groaned, already anticipating a disaster to happen.

The Companions felt like his stomach was doing summersaults, but in happy anticipation, not fear. “What _is_ that smell?”

Farkas stopped talking to give him a sceptical look. Great, if Icebrains thought his twin was losing his mind then Vilkas really ought to worry.

However, something spicy hung in the air, the faintest of perfumes. Drowsily pleasant, like a blend of spices warmed by the summer sun with sharper notes that reminded him of sandalwood and cloves. It was driving him insane. And beneath it all it smelled dangerous, dark and bitter, like ashes and wood scorched by fire. Vilkas felt his hackles rise, his wolf not at all happy with the scent.

‘The dragon’, Vilkas realized. ‘Funny’, he thought. ‘It smells like –’

 

xxxx

 

“You smell like dragon!”

Wulf looked up from the armour he was polishing at the Companion that stormed into Jorrvaskr. Eorlund had presented him with it today; a perfect replica of his old mail, but forged from Skyforge Steel. He was pretty sure the reward he had promised was one of the things that had spurned the smith on to finish his work so swiftly.

“Hello, Grumpy”, Wulf replied. He should have known the peace between would not hold. It never did. “Have you been sniffing a dragon?”, he asked amiably. “How did the lizard take it?”

“It was dead”, Vilkas answered, something burning in his gaze that the other man had absolutely no inclination of dealing with today.

“Are you implying that I smell like a piece of carrion?” Wulf did not feel in the mood to let himself be insulted. “Screw you!” He picked up his armour, slung it over his shoulder and left Vilkas gaping open-mouthed after him.

“That's not what I...dammit!”, the Companion shouted until a silent chuckle drew his attention to his brother. “What are you laughing at?”

“He's just messing with you”, Farkas explained patiently. “And you are without a doubt the worst person at dating that I know.”

 oooo

Wulf found Lydia relaxing in Breezehome in front of the fire pit with a mug of mead in her hand. She greeted him with a wave and a smile, not bothering to rise. Their relationship had quickly turned to friendship rather than being Thane and housecarl, something Wulf has been quite uncomfortable with.

It was getting warmer and he could stall no longer for fear that Balgruuf might personally kick his behind out of Whiterun and furthermore it appeared that he had overstayed his welcome in Jorrvaskr as well. Since there was no nice way to share the news, Wulf just ambled over, smiled at Lydia and with as much enthusiasm as he could muster he said “I am sure you've always wanted to climb seven thousand steps.”

“Can't say that I have, no.” The warrior appeared confused for a heartbeat and then her face fell and she sighed heavily, remembering.

“Hurray!” Wulf did not even pretend at joy. “We can be miserable together then.”


	31. BTS

Several days later Wulf found himself stalking after a wounded deer, Aela at his side. She had spotted the limping roe and now they were following a trail only the Huntress could track down. Wulf was mostly there to keep busy and because she was one of the few persons left still talking to him. In fact, the hunt had been Aela's idea and he suspected that she wanted to use him as a pack mule and the occasion to wrest some answers from him.

Their trip had been strained before it had even truly begun. It started when Wulf caught the scent of blood coming from his friend. It was fresh, and he had stopped to comment on it. “You're hurt.” Wulfryk had almost gotten used to the werewolf's heightened senses, but sometimes it still surprised how much he could tell.

Aela appeared unconcerned. “No, I am not”, she replied and marched right on. If she wanted to prove something it was a stupid idea to do so by running through the wilds with an injury.

“Yes, you are bleeding”, he called after her.

The Huntress halted once more to cast an exasperated glance over her shoulder. “Wulf.” The faintest hint of a warning hung in the single word, but he ignored it.

“I can smell it.” She should have known that denying it was useless when it was true.

“Wulf”, she said, more forcefully this time, but it was no more effective.

“I can heal you, you know?”, Wulfryk offered only to watch Aela throw her arms up in the air and cast her eyes towards the heavens before turning on her heel to face him, too close for his comfort all of a sudden.

“Wulf!” Just shy of a shout, and the man being addressed snapped his jaw shut at the small red-headed warrior's ire. “Women can bleed without being wounded!”, Aela explained with an air of patience that she had to have put on for his sake.

“Oh.” Well, making a fool out of himself one more time couldn't make things worse anyway. “Oops. Sorry.”

“It's alright”, she replied in a less strained tone than a moment ago. “Thank you for the offer.” The Huntress knew it was well-meant. Sometimes it was difficult to tell when Wulf was being nosy and annoying on purpose and when he truly was unaware that he had stumbled into territory that many people would consider rude, if they were asked as directly as she had been. A certain lack of tact was a required when dealing with her friend.

They had exchanged no more words afterwards because Wulf spotted the herd of deer grazing at the edge of a forest and Aela left him behind to watch as she snuck closer. The key to successful hunting was patience. Patience and focus and persistence. She had been trained by her parents and on top of that she had been a werewolf for many years. It had taught her to see the world around her in a different way; that of a true predator, comfortable in its body and sure of its own strength and reflexes.

Aela's arrow dealt a swifter death to the wounded roe than any beasts of prey would have done. She had no qualms killing a perfectly healthy buck and nobody in Jorrvaskr would eat stringy meat and gristle, but the hunt for a single target was so much more challenging and, a lot more satisfying when successful.

Wulf congratulated his friend on a great shot and then they waited a couple of minutes to give the animal enough time to die in peace. It wouldn't take long for it to bleed out with both its lungs pierced by the broadheaded arrow. Together they made quick work of dressing the deer; Aela removing its intestines while Wulf broke the neck and cut through the tendons to remove its head entirely. Afterwards he slung the carcass across his shoulders to carry it back to Whiterun where Aela could skin and butcher it.

“Are you coming to Jorrvaskr?”, the Huntress asked almost as if she had sensed his thoughts.

“Nah, I’ll stay in Breezehome”, Wulf replied with nonchalance that he did not actually feel. “Lydia and I are leaving tomorrow. Until then I'm keeping away from Vilkas.” It was for the best.

Aela's face scrunched up, half an empathic wince and half a grimace. “I heard what happened”, she carefully began.

“You and the rest of Jorrvaskr and probably half of Whiterun”, her Nord companion muttered darkly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”, the Huntress enquired because he was still her friend.

“Not really”, was Wulf's reply, the one she had anticipated. “Do you want to know what happened?”

“Not really.” It was none of her business save that the men involved were her friends, shield-brothers and she loved Vilkas as if he was her own brother. “But know one thing”, she cautioned. “He is my shield brother, has been for over twenty years. What you did makes me want to put one of my arrows through your arrogant, insensitive arse.”

Wulfryk snorted without humour and gloomily pointed out “You can get in line then.” And it was a long one.

“I didn't want to hurt him, you know?”, he asked with a heavy sigh, not expecting an answer. He had managed to do so anyway, spectacularly judging by the fight that had followed.

Aela was having none of that though, rounding on him once more. “You just wanted to amuse yourself for a night and then you walked out on him and when he proposes to have something more you dump him like you would a harlot?!” The Huntress could be intimidating if she wanted to, but just then Wulf just stepped around her and continued on towards Whiterun. The Companion could keep up or fall behind.

It sounded wrong when she put it like that, and that was indeed what had happened. But then Wulf did not know how much more blatant he could be about the fact that all he was looking for was consensual, casual sex. It was nice when it came with a friendship as that made things less awkward, but he had never made a secret out of not wanting any strings attached or the hazard of a relationship, because Wulf did not want to deal with the whole emotional mess that usually followed when somebody got a bit too attached. The entire debacle that had happened nonetheless three days ago when he had tried rather hard to avoid it.

He had thought Vilkas was safe. They could scarcely spend an afternoon in the same room without ending up at each other's throats and got along only when both of them kept their mouths shut.

Where in the name of all the infinite planes of Oblivion had the man gotten the asinine idea -

“Don't ignore me now!”, Aela interrupted Wulf's thoughts, having caught up to his longer stride with ease.

“I wanted to fuck him!”, he admitted and did not care that he actually succeeded at making her flinch. If she didn't want the details she should not have asked. It wasn't like Vilkas had been unwilling; far from it. How many one-night flings had _he_ walked away from? “Why is everybody making such a great deal out of it?”

“You don't screw people and then walk away!”, Aela yelled, more out of frustration than anger. “That's not how things work, Wulf.”

“It's how they work for me.” It's exactly how they had worked for over a decade. A week ago he had considered doing Blondie, the guard from the market. He still did. He might even do it. Where was the harm in that?

“It's just like your drinking at Kodlak's funeral”, the Huntress berated the man next to her.

If she had meant to confuse him, she certainly was doing well. “What's wrong with drinking at a funeral!?” By now Wulf sounded as vexed as he felt.

“It's disrespectful!”

Which didn't make any sense at all. “How can it be disrespectful? There was a party later, even the Jarl knocked himself out!”

“You don't know.” She stopped to stare at him and to run her hands through her long unbraided hair. “You really don't know.”

“I don't even know what I don't know”, Wulf grumbled and spat another curse. “Fuck! Vilkas is a grown man he doesn't need you as his guardian of virginity and virtue!”

He still didn't fit in, not after all this time. Not in Jorrvaskr, not in Whiterun, not in Skyrim, his ancestral home, the country about which Wulf had spent hours listening to his drunk father's ramblings, where he was merely a stranger in. It would change given time, he knew.

But the Companions? When was the last time any of them had to worry about things like one of their friends slitting their throats in the middle of the night because it would increase the share? About getting food? Or boots?

What did it say about him when a bunch of glorified killers were outraged and shocked by his callous ways?

He felt Aela's glare between his shoulder blades but did not turn back. The walk back to the city was uncomfortably silent with the two of them lost in thought. Wulf contemplated his trip to the greybeards and whether he had managed to pack everything necessary while the Huntress remembered what she had overheard of the two Companions' affair.

Vilkas had not wanted to have another fight, of that Aela was sure. Wulf had no idea how to argue like a civilized person. No matter what happened between the Companions, they always respected each other. Things got heated sometimes and arguments got out of hand. There were tears every now and then and, far more often, fists flew. They always made up in the end, though. They were a family. Even at their worst the others knew that certain topics were strictly off-limits, some issues private and far too painful to be used against your shield-siblings in some petty quarrel. But not to Wulf. He took what advantage he could get, ripped open wounds both old and new and kept poking at them. He argued for the sole reason of devastating his opponent, always inflicting the maximum damage. And he fought with words just like he fought with blades: with cruel glee and cold, calculating precision.

 

It had been ugly.

 

xxxx

 

At first Wulf had been pleasantly surprised when Vilkas invited him for dinner at the Bannered Mare, but once they returned to Jorrvaskr slightly tipsy and in good spirits the Companion's behaviour changed. Enough to alert his friend that something was going on. And then Wulf knew what was happening, because he had lived through it dozens of times, recognized the signs. He was sober within an instant. There was no nice way to turn down a romantic advance so he did it as he had always done: straightforward and unequivocal.

“I'm not interested in a relationship, Vilkas.”

A stunned silence followed his proclamation that Wulf somehow needed to fill with words. “I’m leaving for High Hrothgar in a week. The Jarl-”

“Bullshit!”, Vilkas interrupted, anger radiating from him like heat from a fire. “This isn't about the Jarl. You are running away. It's what you've always done.”

“I didn't run from helping your brother”, Wulf snapped back, because that was one tone he did not allow for people to take with him.

“Don't play that card”, the Companion snorted. “You owed him.”

“I helped you kill a giant. I saved your ungrateful ass when you were about to become charred dragon snack and I almost got myself killed by the same dragon some time later and when I tried to pull your brother out of that Cairn!” It was Wulf's turn to lose his temper. “I don't owe you anything.”

This. This was the very reason he avoided anything more complicated than regular hook-ups. It always was painful when things didn't work out and usually he got blamed for it on top. “Look.” Through great effort he managed to force his voice into calmness. “You don't feel whatever it is you think you feel for me.”

Vilkas certainly found some rather creative terms for what he thought about Wulf then, but when the retaliation came it was him who ended up storming off into the night broken-hearted.

“I'm glad we could talk about it”, Wulf said to the empty porch.

He slept in Breezehome that night.

 oooo

On the next day he had been visited by Farkas whilst packing in advance. Farkas who always saw the best in a person. He was the last one Wulf wanted to explain himself to. The Companion was hurt because his twin had been rebuffed and both mad and disappointed at Wulfryk because of the way he had handled things. Above all else, he did not understand. “My brother is a good man.”

“Yes.” There was no denying that. “But I am not.” Farkas looked like he wanted to say something more, but Wulf did not let him. “He deserves better.”

It was telling when Farkas did not argue that point.

“Better say your goodbyes to Lydia”, Wulf recommended and was left with the distinctive abhorrent self-loathing that could otherwise only be achieved through kicking a puppy.

 

xxxx

 

The following week was strained, but Wulf's mood improved as soon as he set foot outside of Whiterun. It felt liberating to be on the road again, never mind that a week ago he had been just as happy to stay at Jorrvaskr. A group of soldiers intercepted him and Lydia at the gates, their leader stepping forward.

“We are here to escort you, to the Valtheim Towers, Thane”, the guard said with a formal bow and Wulf immediately recognized him from the market place. That hair colour was not common, not even amongst Nords. “The Jarl wishes to show his respects.”

“I volunteered”, he added once the rest of the men were out of hearing range after he had waved them on.

“What's your name?”, Wulf asked the guard with an easy smile, pleasantly surprised with his new travelling companions.

“Mikkjáll, Thane.”

“I'm Wulf”, he introduced himself.

“I know.” The smile he received in return was most engaging, despite being slightly coy.

“I didn't see you at Jorrvaskr”, Wulf pointed out after a while of walking abreast in silence, a statement that made the other Nord shake his head, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

“I never thought your friend would fall for something as stupid”, Wulf confessed and they shared a laugh. Mikkjáll was easy to be around with, just the type of man Wulfryk usually angled for. The distraction of flirting with him was just what he needed to forget the debacle with Vilkas. If Lydia threw dirty looks at the two men who trailed behind the rest of the troop, he ignored her.

The soldiers they journeyed with were to relieve the garrison stationed at the Towers. Walking there took them longer than if they had ridden, but it was a nice change not to be in a hurry to reach their destination for once. Wulf enjoyed the soldiers' bawdy company and the vespertine carousals around the campfire and Lydia did too, once she ceased her attempts at glaring him to death and instead used the time to catch up to old friends she had barely talked to since her training as housecarl had begun.

The garrison greeted them with more drink and a roasted wild boar that had been felled by the lucky shot of an idle soldier from atop the bridge that spanned the White River. Ever since the bandits had been driven out of the old keep – by none other than the Companions – the guard there had little to do except to collect the Jarl's tax from the occasional trading caravan that passed through. And those had been few and far in between in winter.

The men were bored to death and the arrival of the Thane of Whiterun was as good an excuse to throw a party as any.

Wulf used it to chat Blondie up. Their game had gone on long enough and he understood the discretion when with the other soldiers, but he had been given a room and nobody was going to miss them tonight.

“I have a big bed”, Wulf growled into the man's ear just to watch him shiver. “I want to bend you over it”

He did just that, an hour and two mugs of mead later.

Drink rendered them both mellow after their short, but heated tryst and Mikkjáll pillowed head on Wulf's shoulder, running the tips of his fingers idly over Wulf's chest and tugged playfully at the dark hairs. His own was so light in colour it looked silver in the moonlight, his scar a dark streak that contrasted with his pale skin. He had received it fighting a knife-wielding bandit high on skooma; the outlaw had been hit by two arrows and skewered by the soldier's blade that he had ripped out of his hands, yet he still had fought on until he practically dropped dead from blood loss.

Blondie said he liked his scar because it got him laid. Although he also admitted to having claimed gaining it in a wide range of dramatic battles that had never taken place. Maybe the bandit too was made up but Wulf didn't mind because it made for a good story.

With morning came the usual discomfort of waking up naked next to a near total stranger. It was made weirder by the guard's addressing him as ‘my Thane’.

“If you bring titles into this you can walk down without your pants”, Wulf muttered and most of the awkwardness was dispelled with the jovial guffaw that followed his idle threat.

 oooo

Lydia did not look happy to see the two dishevelled men coming out from her Thane's rooms. She glared first at Wulf and then at her bowl when he sat down at the same table next to her. “I thought you and Vilkas-”, the housecarl began only to be interrupted before she could finish.

“No.” Wulf curtly said, only to change the topic in the next instant. “Why don't we talk about you and Icebrains instead?”

“Don't call him that!”, Lydia rebuked him instantly.

“Why?”

“Because it hurts his feelings.” Goods, he could be such an idiot at times. “And before you ask, things are going very well, thank you!”, she nearly shouted, loud enough to silence the soldiers sitting at the other tables who were all nursing hangovers of various degrees.

She might not have wanted to talk about her developing relationship at first, but Wulf managed to coax it out of her over breakfast anyway by pretending not to be interested and before long he was nodding while she recounted everything, her earlier outburst forgotten. Women were strange sometimes

“I always thought the Companions had one of Eorlund's swords stuck up their behinds when they joined, but Farkas is different. He says such sweet things.”

Wulf let her ramble on because it diverted her attention from him, but at that last part he had to chuckle. “I bet he does.”

Lyida did not take well to his amused tone. “Well, what did Scarface say to you yesterday?”, she snapped at her Thane, who was holding two winter pears in his hand, one of which he wrapped in a piece of clean cloth and stored in the pack at his feet.

“Oh yes, oh yes, oh Talos, yes”, Wulf cited and took a bite out of his pear, juice running over his fingers and over his chin from where he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Lydia did not breach the subject again.

 oooo

In the morning Wulf and Lydia took their leave from the soldiers who bid them good luck and a safe journey, some commenting that they did not envy them the climb while others expressed their curiosity about High Hrothgar and the reclusive Greybeards. Blondie cheerfully waved at Wulf, only saying that he had enjoyed their time together. They probably wouldn't run into each other anytime soon and that too suited him just fine.

From the Valtheim Towers onwards they travelled on horseback, not held back by men on foot anymore. They made good time overall, sometimes walking their horses after dark. As long as they were on the main road there was no danger of getting lost and from the small map Balgruuf had lent Wulf and the guards' descriptions of the way they wouldn't need to worry about finding the path to Ivarstead until after they had circled around the Throat of the World. And if they missed it, they could always follow the road, though it would take them further, if not necessarily longer.

As it turned out, Lydia and her Thane found the trail without any difficulties as there was an old sign standing at the side of the road with their destination's name carved into it. The way was steep and the first leg of the climb took them through the forest and above the tree line where the path evened out a bit, but grew narrower. It was less cluttered than it had been below, but the soil was crumbling away in some places, only held in place by the roots of some sparse conifers and mountain pines. The small trees lined the sides of the mountain's foothills and when the sun shone it became stifling hot in their midst.

The horses were swishing their tails and tossing their heads ceaselessly and merely looking at them made Wulf dizzy. He killed what gnats and horseflies decided to make him their dinner, but both he and Lydia ended up with several itchy bites nonetheless. They walked well into the night with Wulf's magical light illuminating the way, not wanting to sleep here for fear of being eaten alive.

What decided to eat them an hour later were not insects, or wild animals.

When both horses jumped at a rustling noise in the bushes Wulf's sword was in his hand before he had even consciously thought about drawing the weapon. He unbuckled the leather belt at his chest and pulled his shield from his back, letting the strap fall through the handle and to the ground. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Lydia move and assumed his housecarl too was armed and ready to face whatever came their way.

For a short while they strained their ears while nothing happened and then a middle aged woman stepped out of the darkness and blocked their way. Even in the weak light her hair glowed softly golden. “I love it when dinner walks right into my arms”, she commented dryly, spreading her arms as if in welcome.

Wulf thought he had misheard at first. _Dinner?_ “Hey, did you just call me ‘dinner’?”

Her head whipped around and she fixed him with what he assumed would have been a cold stare if he could have seen anything of her face. Right. Maybe he should not antagonize the crazy hag.

“Don't struggle”, a soft voice from their left told them where a lean girl crouched in the shadows. She had appeared there seemingly out of nowhere and sounded young, but there was not a single shred of compassion in her voice, only a faint trace of excitement. “Your death will be swift and painless.”

Wulf still wasn't sure he had heard right. If this was a joke it was in very bad taste. He could have kicked himself for the unintended pun. “Ummm. Ladies?”

One of the moons broke free of the clouds then and Wulf saw it, their red eyes and skin pale as alabaster. Next to him he heard Lydia curse. Because glowing red eyes were bad. Wulf had never seen a vampire, but what tales he had heard hardly encouraged meetings with the creatures.

The girl straightened slowly, breaking out into a maniac, shrill laugh. “I'm going to suck you dry”, she whispered, licking her lips in anticipation and took a step forward, the blonde woman mirroring her actions.

Lydia hefted her shield, ready to meet their attacker, but Wulf suddenly paused, appeared to relax his fighting stance marginally. “Oh.” He grinned as his voice dropped suggestively. “Kinky.”

Both vampires halted in their advance, looked at each other. It probably did not happen very often that their food talked back. Well, Wulf was a special case. He heard Lydia's long-suffering sigh and despite the danger they were in he had a hard time not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

“That's not what I meant”, vampire girl glowered, pouting in a way that many men would undoubtedly find irresistible.

Her friend laughed while the first one moaned “I'll never live this one down.” They did not appear worried about facing two warriors while unarmed and that in itself was alarming, but at the moment they paid their conversation more heed than they did their prospective meal.

It was time to rectify that. “You know, I’ve always been wondering”, Wulf began “Does it _have_ to be blood?”

The older, blonde one threw an annoyed look his way. “What?”

Wulf readily explained “You know, people would like you so much more if you sucked cock.”

“ _Ysmir's beard_ ”, Lydia groaned. Only her Thane could have a rational, matter-of-fact conversation with two hungry vampires in the middle of the night and still manage to turn it to the topic of sex somehow.

“Eww”, the younger looking vampire's face twisted with disgust that made her look like she was choking at the very idea and promptly declared “I'm not hungry anymore.”

The blond woman put a protective arm around her smaller friend and gently began to pull her back. “Let's go, sister. This crazy pervert will only give us indigestion.”

“What about his friend?”, the brunette enquired quietly as they turned to leave.

“Stringy.”

“Hey!”, Wulf and Lydia cried in unison.

“Did this really just happen?”, the housecarl muttered more to herself than to her companion while he bellowed after the women.

“I'll have you know I taste delicious!” Wulfryk turned back to Lydia who had the same somewhat stunned look on her face as he must have had and pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the vampires who were walking away without any hurry. “That was bloody rude!”

As it turned out, the bloodsuckers burned better than dry kindling when hit with twin bolts of fire.

 oooo

Ivarstead came into view just as the sun was setting two days later. The thatched roofs and the gurgling river that flowed through the village were both painted in the same fiery red that glinted off the armour of the guards when they approached the two wanderers with their swords drawn.

Lydia had her own blade ready and stepped in front of her Thane to protect him at the same time a tall, brawny woman called out “Who are you?”

“My name is Lydia and this man is Wulfryk, Thane of Whiterun”, the housecarl answered before Wulf could open his mouth. “We are here on a pilgrimage to High Hrothgar!”

They had agreed beforehand that it would be unwise and possibly quite dangerous to flaunt that he might be Dragonborn. Instead they would pass as travellers seeking to meditate at the Seven Thousand Steps and the wayshrines they would find along the way.

“I am Sigunnr, captain of the guard here”, the warrior replied. “If you'll just let me have a look at your eyes.”

They did, and with their eyes the normal colours of hazel and blue and Wulf's tan that had not waned much during his stay in Skyrim, it was obvious they were not who the soldiers were looking for. Sigunnr's comrades left for their posts after that, the tension dissipating and weapons disappearing back in their sheaths.

“There has been a death”, the guard explained, confirming what they had suspected since she had made her request. “Barknar, another pilgrim. Boti said the only thing she saw of the assailants were their red eyes. And there were bite marks...”

“Vampires”, Lydia stated.

“Aye.” Sigunnr nodded her head. “Excuse us for being a bit nervous at nightfall when two strangers approach, Thane. We have patrols out searching for the scum, but nobody's found a trace of them yet.”

“You won't”, Wulf told her. “We dealt with them.”

The news was not as well received as they would have expected. “Did they touch you?”, the guard asked, anxious once more. “They say if a vampire so much as scratches you...”

“No, they did not touch us”, Lydia assured the woman. “We killed them from a distance after my Thane managed to...”, she faltered before continuing “Shock them into flight.”

Sigunnr appeared sceptical. “How do you frighten vampires?”, she asked with one eyebrow raised.

“Don't ask”, Wulf answered, his expression slightly forlorn. “I don't get it myself and I was the one who did it.”

Lydia did not mind chatting with another warrior, but the day had been long and she was sweaty, itchy and in need of a bath. “If you could show us to an inn, please”, she said, addressing the other Nord.

“Of course, housecarl”, the guardswoman agreed. “There is only one: Vilemyr Inn. Wilhelm is the owner. He has a paddock for your horses and will take good care of them for a little extra coin while you are gone. Follow me. I will show you the way.”

They did, leading their horses until Wulf stopped to point out a hill in the distance. There was a circular structure set into the mound. “What's that?”

“Shroud Hearth Barrow”, Sigunnr replied and cautioned “Do not go near. It is haunted.”

Wulf had to admit; the places he went were never dull. “Vampires and now ghosts?”

“I know. Being a guard has never been as exciting.” She sounded like she could do without the thrill of undead nocturnal visitors. “Well, here we are.” The guard had duties she needed to attend to and they were weary and almost as if on cue Lydia's stomach growled. Sigunnr took her leave “Good night, Thane Wulfryk.” She inclined her head “Húskarl.”

A sleepy Bosmer took their horses and led them to the stables, thanking them for the tip he received. Vilemyr Inn was a typical Nord guesthouse with a fire pit in the middle of the common room and several tables that stood around it. For such a small town the place was well attended, the villagers enjoying a mug of mead and a chat with friends after a day's hard work.

Wulf walked up to the counter and paid the innkeeper for dinner, a room and a hot bath for both of them. After a month on the road where they had mostly scrubbed themselves clean with a washrag a tub to soak in sounded just like what they needed.

When Wulf asked about the barrow, Wilhelm assured his guests that what ghosts had been sighted stuck to the ruins and never bothered the townspeople. An adventurer named Wyndelius had investigated once, but never returned.

After the bath Wulf would have been happy to go to sleep, but Lydia was starving and he had already handed over the coin. Wilhelm had two dishes prepared; Wulfryk chose what was left of the vegetable casserole while Lydia decided to try mudcrab. She had a voracious appetite, he had found out during their journey together.

Where she put all the food was anyone's guess, although some teasing would not hurt. “You're getting fat”, Wulf stated with a prod at her belly.

His housecarl looked up at him in outrage, putting a protective hand across her middle. “I'm not _fat_!”

“Not yet”, Wulf corrected her. “You keep eating like this...”

Before she could retort a bald man next to them cleared his throat and anything Lydia could have said was lost when he introduced himself.

“My name is Klimmek. I have overheard that you plan on walking the Steps. I can only advise against going up there now. The path is dangerous this time of the year. The predators will be hungry after winter and who knows what has come down from the icy heights.”

“You know the way well?”, Wulf asked and offered him a seat, raising his arm to get the innkeeper's attention. The man who sat down opposite him looked to be in his fifties, his face lined heavily around his eyes and his skin the dark brown of a person who spent his entire life outdoors.

“Aye”, Klimmek replied, nodding his thanks when Wilhelm filled his mug with ale. “I carry supplies up to High Hrothgar. Used to make the trip every two weeks in my younger days. Now I can't go as often anymore, it _is_ a very long climb. I don't even know if the Greybeards expect my deliveries, but not making them feels like letting them down, somehow.”

“Have you been inside High Hrothgar?”, Lydia joined the conversation, seemingly having forgotten all about her Thane's teasing.

The older Nord took a sip of the cool golden liquid that filled his tankard and shook his head. “No, I have yet to be allowed into the monastery.”

“Do many people come to stay with the Greybeards?”, Lydia wanted to know next and Wulf leaned forward a bit to better hear the old man's response. He appeared happy at having found somebody to chat with and the topic was an interesting one with them headed for High Hrothgar.

“No, not for years”, Klimmek chuckled. “Not since Ulfric and Balgruuf. I guess they are Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and Jarl Balgruuf the Greater now”, he corrected himself. “How the time passes! I remember him. Ulfric”, he clarified with a smile when he noticed his listeners' curiosity. “Six years old when he first came here, nine when he stayed. He wasn't bigger than this”, the old man held out to show just how small the child had been. “All blond hair and laughter; kept running around with that friend of his. They had come riding with his father, the Bear of Eastmarch. I remember how the whole town was in uproar. We never had such noble visitors again”, he sighed with obvious longing.

“You could hear the shouts coming from that mountain back then”, Klimmek picked up his tale after another mouthful of ale and a sigh. “Now it's mostly quiet. Except when they called for the Dragonborn, some months back.”

Wulf's ears perked up at that bit. “Has he come?”, he asked, by all means looking eager at meeting the mysterious figure that was himself.

“Not as far as I know”, the old man replied, unaware of the little act. “Are you sure you wish to go?”, he enquired again, visibly worried about their wellbeing.

“We are very good taking care of ourselves, Goodman Klimmek”, Wulf assured him. “Lydia here is a housecarl”, he pointed out much to her delight.

“Is she now?” The old man's attitude changed visibly at the news; housecarls were known for their prowess in battle, after all. “Then maybe...”, he began hesitatingly “Would you mind if I joined you? An old man like me is easy prey, but with you I would not have to worry. I'm of little use in a fight”, he admitted “But if your packs get heavy, I will let my mules carry them for a while.”

They struck a deal right then, the opportunity of an experienced guide in the mountains too valuable to let it pass. Not to mention that it made the old man happy because could carry out a duty that was, as he claimed, as old as the Greybeards themselves and had been his family's responsibility for many generations.

 oooo

Klimmek was waiting for them with two heavily leaden mules by the bridge at the edge of the town on the next morning. The animals carried halters, but no ropes and he did not lead them as much as gently tapped their croups with his hiking stick and they obediently trotted forward, obviously familiar with the way.

The weather fine and the sun shone from a clear blue sky although their guide warned them that in the mountains it could change within minutes. Wulf rubbed his hands when they came to the bottom of the path that wound steadily upwards. “Seven thousand steps”, he stated. “I'm counting so don't disturb me or we'll have to start from the beginning.”

Within a few minutes everybody's laboured breaths were the only sound save for the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the merry chirping of various birds. For all Klimmek had complained about his age and bad knees his step was sure and nimble and he set a tempo that had Wulf's head throbbing with the exertion.

They took their first brief break in a cool, shady spot after approximately two hours when Lydia confessed to feeling queasy. A couple of minutes later Wulf was holding her hair while she bent over in the bushes, losing her breakfast. “I shouldn't have eaten those steamed mudcrab legs”, the housecarl complained after she had rinsed her mouth with water.

“Yeah”, Wulf agreed readily. “You don't know where they've been.”

Klimmek offered her dry crackers saying that the altitude often made pilgrims sick and when her nausea subsided after nibbling on them they continued onwards.

Climbing the stairs was monotonous and dull, Wulf and Lydia's gazes trailed on the ground, their concentration only on the next step. They felt like collapsing beneath their packs at first, but after a while they fell into the rhythm of climbing and it went easier from there on. The trick was not to think about how much was still ahead of them. To pass the time they talked whenever the ascent wasn't too steep, robbing them of all breath.

Their guide told them of all the dangers of the mountain, wolves that would sometimes sniff after travellers, but seldom attacked unless starving and frostbite spiders that could occasionally be encountered in broad daylight when hunger drove them out of their caves. There were other threats, those of avalanches of snow in the higher parts and ice covered steps where a person could slip and break a limb – if lucky. Or plummet to their deaths in the abyss to their left, if not.

“What is the worst thing that could happen to us?”, Lydia asked strangely cheerful for such a grim topic.

“Snowtroll”, Klimmek puffed, without giving his answer a second thought.

“What do we do if we meet one?”, she wanted to know, aware that if that happened they were truly out of luck.

The old man had a reply ready for even this. “Kill a mule and run and hope it won't come after us.”

“Or we can set it on fire”, Wulf suggested.

“That might kill it”, Klimmek said. “It might not. Those things only get angry, not afraid.” He tapped his own temple. “Too stupid.”

“Have you ever encountered one?”, Wulf enquired between harsh breaths.

“Oh, no!”, their guide cried. “And I thank the Divines for it every day! My grandfather though, he had. He told us how he had survived.”

Then he expressed his regrets at how his faithful mules deserved better than to end as troll food.

Thankfully, nothing exciting happened. They had met few pilgrims on the lower part of the path, close to Ivarstead but none further up. They bivouacked on a nice clearing with an overhanging wall of rock where the mules could graze on the sparse shrubbery and where the humans were protected from wind and bad weather.

Wulf woke up with stiff and aching muscles and Lydia fared no better, worse even, because she had to throw up once more. Her Thane walked the perimeter of their camp to dispel the protective wards he had placed around it and they continued. It had steadily grown colder as they made their way up and a fine mist that had at first frozen their clothes solid came down as snow a while later. They were sweating under their multiple layers of warm clothes, but it was too cold to shed any of them and by the middle of the second day they were all miserable. Only the mules did not complain.

“There it is”, Klimmek at long last pointed out a dark shape that could be barely seen through the swirling snow. High Hrothgar.”

Wulf and Lydia helped him carry the supplies to the front doors and when they were done the old man excused himself, but unlike them he did not want to linger. “There are two hours of light left”, he explained gruffly. “I want to get down and out of this snow as quickly as possible.”

Wulf waved his apology away. “Don't wait up, we might be a while.” They said their goodbyes and watched Klimmek and his mules until they disappeared behind a bend in the path.

What was visible of the monastery was dark, rectangular and did not look inviting.

“Well, this is it.” Wulf did not wait for an answer, but lifted the heavy knocker and rapped it firmly against the heavy doors. The sound it produced was a hollow metallic clang that reminded him of the gongs that were used in Elsweyr to strike the hour.

After a long while a door opened and an elderly man clad in grey robes stood before them. He had an odd knot in his beard and his hands were hidden in his long sleeves, but his eyes were keen. He had to be one of them Greybeards. Wulf didn't think he looked like much, but changed his opinion after the stranger spoke.

“Greetings.”

It was quiet, almost a whisper, yet perfectly audible and carried power, pure and simple.

What did you say to these legendary wise men? Wulfryk settled on “Nice to meet you. I'm Wulf. The one you called for”, he added just to cut to why they were here; Lydia was leaning on him again. She had been suffering from bouts of sickness that he was thankfully spared and the strain from their climb was etched in her face.

“So, a Dragonborn appears in this moment at the turning of the age.” The Greybeard had a penchant for drama apparently and a really bad sense of urgency.

Wulf tapped his foot impatiently, wondering how the old Nord had known. “Yeah. Here I am.” If they could do this a bit faster; his housecarl was a rather heavy weight to support.

The Greybeard lifted a hand as if to stall him. “First”, he said and Wulf's hopes of getting this over with quickly were dashed. “We will see if you truly have the gift. Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your voice.”

Right. Shout. That's what he had supposedly done when the dragon had attacked the Western Watchtower. The guards had called it Thu'um.

Wulf had absolutely no idea what in Oblivion he was supposed to do now, or how.

The Greybeard must have misinterpreted his panicked look and assured him “Do not worry; your shout will do me no harm.”

“My housecarl is sick”, Wulfryk tried, after doing some quick thinking. “Could we do this later?”

“We will do it now.” The old man's tone brooked no argument.

“Look-”, Wulf began and stopped. _No arguing with a fool_. “Alright.”

He nudged Lydia into coming with him and bless her, she immediately picked up on what he was about to do and joined in. When they stormed forward with their best, most fierce battlecries, the old man fell back in surprise and no small degree of alarm. The Greybeard stepped on the hem of his long robes, waved his arms wildly and stumbled, landing clumsily on his behind while Wulf quickly ushered his housecarl to step into the dim hall of the monastery.

Wulf was preparing to apologize – even if the geezer _had_ insisted to be shouted at – and wanted to reach out to help the bewildered Greybeard up. It wouldn't have been so bad.

Except then Lydia threw up on him.


	32. BTS

“I'm sorry”, Lydia moaned with a hand clasped in front of her mouth and the other across her upset stomach, while Wulf shot the Greybeard his best _I told you so_ look.

“I'm so sorry.”

“It's quite alright”, the old man sighed and heavily rose to his feet. “I see your friend is unwell”, he told Wulfryk, gracious as he had been unyielding before and stretched out his hand to point at the dimly lit halls of High Hrothgar. “Why don't you come inside?”

The offer came somewhat late, but better now than never and it appeared the Greybeard regretted his former inhospitable attitude now. Or maybe he just wanted a quick change of clothes.

He led them through the antechamber and the main hall and into the right wing of the monastery, past a library and a room with a huge circular stone table. Wulf and Lydia got separate rooms right at the end of the corridor next to a side exit to the courtyard. They were interconnected through a door, suggesting that they had served as quarters for a single person once.

“Here we are. Make yourselves comfortable”, the Greybeard told them and turned to leave. “If you'll excuse me, I shall clean myself up now.”

The rooms looked like they had been uninhabited for a very long time, though both were clean and free of dust. But there was a certain air of abandonment about them, as if something was missing. Or someone. A presence so faint now that Wulf barely picked up on it lingered and the furniture and belongings told the story of how this had once been somebody's home.

The tapestries that covered the otherwise bare stone walls were rich but half-faded, depicting hunting scenes, the wild beasts of Skyrim and men and women drinking and fighting and celebrating. Wulf's eyes came to rest on a longboat that was carried by a host of men and a tall warrior wielding a two-handed axe. Ysgramor, he realized, and his five hundred Companions.

He dropped his pack and wandered around, picking up books and small items while Lydia sank down on the bed and hugged a bucket she had found beneath it.

There were sheets of crumbling paper lying on the desk and when he uncorked the inkwell it was to see that it had dried up completely. Wulf put it back and pulled a book at random from one of the many shelves: ‘Kolb and the Dragon’, it read in big bold letters. A child's book and he wondered whom it once had belonged to.

He returned it to its respective place, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of disturbing anything, even if he could discern no arrangement in the haphazard way most of the volumes had been stored away.

Slowly, weariness began to set in and he became aware of how his body ached. The climb up to the monastery had been a taxing one and whereas Wulf had felt hot and lightheaded before, he now shivered with his clothes soaked in sweat and cooling. He was debating undressing and quickly scrubbing himself down with snow when a knock on the doorframe made both him and Lydia look up.

Another Greybeard, this time one with a heavily wrinkled face and a bushy beard that still retained some of its original brown colour despite the man's age. Wulf wasn't sure whom he had expected.

The other man inclined his head politely and entered, handing a small flask to Lydia and motioning for her to drink without uttering a single word.

“You don't speak?”, Wulf enquired, intrigued by the man's silence.

The Greybeard just shook his head and gestured for the sick woman to keep whatever it was he had given her. He was surprisingly good at making himself understood, all without any talking and soon they knew where they would find fresh water and tubs and where they could heat water for a bath, when dinner was served and where the firewood for the fireplace was stored away.

Wulf ran out of patience halfway through heating water and jumped in as soon as it was lukewarm. It was still way better than snow. He washed his clothes afterwards while Lydia, who was more patient, enjoyed a hot bath.

“How are you?”, he asked his housecarl when she no longer looked quite as green as she had before.

“Better, thanks”, Lydia sighed, resting her head against the tub's rim with her eyes closed. “Gods, this was so embarrassing”, she whispered after a short moment of silence.

Wulf shrugged although she was not looking at him and the gesture probably was futile. “We got in, didn't we?”, he pointed out. “And without being Shouted apart at that.”

After pouring the dirty water out in the courtyard he stared a fire and hung up his clothes to dry. Sleep was what he needed now, but he did not sit down on the bed, choosing a chair instead. This way he would hopefully stay awake.

Lydia had just finished changing when the first Grey-Knotbeard came back, dressed in clean robes this time. “Welcome to High Hrothgar”, he said, the whisper of his voice reverberating in the empty space. “I am master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards.”

“I am Wulf”, Wulf repeated “And the lady who threw up on you is my housecarl, Lydia”.

“Sorry.” She sounded every bit as miserable as she must have felt.

“I hope you are better now, child?”, Arngeir directed his next question directly at her.

“Yes, thank you”, she replied quietly.

Arngeir nodded, satisfied with the answer. “The herbal infusion master Wulfgar gave you should help with the height sickness”, he said. “Go and see him if you are unwell.”

The Greybeard clapped his hands then, the sharp, dry crack ripping Wulf out of his drowsiness within an instant. He found his right hand behind his back and saw Lydia cast him a worried look from the corner of his eyes. It took more effort than it should have to consciously relax and he crossed his arms because he did not want to do something rash; he was jumpy as it was. Wulf did not trust these old men and their sudden hospitality when he had had a glimpse beyond the veil of friendliness earlier. He was always willing to believe the worst of a person. Though it would be unfair to judge all of them. Maybe Arngeir was just a sour old ass.

Thankfully, the old man noticed none of what had just happened. “Well, Dragonborn”, he began and Wulf could already tell that he hated the title. “I see Klimmek has brought supplies. Will you help an old man carry them?”

He did and together they lugged the heavy sacks full of victuals through the monastery, Wulf doing most of the work and not complaining mostly because there was food inside and it was a comforting thought that at least he wouldn't starve atop this mountain. They stacked crates atop one another in the pantry and sorted through the bags, separating older provisions from the new ones, although Wulf doubted anything would spoil in this cold, since the storeroom wasn't any warmer than it was outside. When they left, their work done, the Greybeard locked the doors after him and Wulf wondered why he would do that, feeling another surge of suspicion.

“How many of you are there?”, Wulf asked to distract himself from the doubts gnawing at his insides. He'd better find out as much as possible about his secretive hosts as he could.

“Five”, Arngeir replied without hesitation and began to count on his fingers. “Master Wulfgar you have already met. Then there's master Borri and master Einarth and our leader, Paarthurnax.”

“Not ‘master’ Paarthurnax?”, Wulf wanted to know because it seemed strange that the leader should be the only one without a honorary title.

“No, no”, the old man waved the idea away. “He does not think of himself that way. He has dedicated his life to the Way of the Voice and lives alone further up the mountain where there are no distractions and disturbances”, he explained and Wulf had the strange vision of an old hermit sitting cross legged atop a boulder and mumbling to himself.

Crazy, the bunch of them.

“And the others don't speak?”, Wulf asked when he remembered Arngeir had said that he spoke for the Greybeards.

“No”, the old man replied. “Their voices are too powerful.”

So these guys didn't even talk to one another. Divines, this had to be the dullest place on Nirn. Wulf already wanted to leave. It didn't sit right with him, that the Greybeards had this power at their disposal. He knew how to wound with words, but killing was quite another thing. That was how most Nords must feel about magic, he mused as they walked through the left wing where the Greybeards lived back to the main hall.

“Tell me”, Arngeir stopped when they stepped out of the corridor and into the lofty hall. “Why have you come?”

“You called?”, Wulf half-asked, half-stated, his attention drawn to a rectangular array of floor tiles beneath his feet. He scraped the toe of his shoe across their rough surface. Arngeir wasn't happy with his answer, he could sense as much, although the old man's face was hidden from his view. However, he could feel disapproval rolling of the Greybeard in waves.

The Greybeard sighed when it became evident that no more of an answer was coming from the wilful Nord and stroked his knotted beard. “Did you know the Grah Graat, the Nord battlecry, is a weaker form of the Thu'um?”, he asked finally.

“No.” _Interesting_.

“Ah, but it is.” Arngeir nodded his head as if the words alone were not enough to make Wulf believe him. “Nords, more than any other peoples, have an aptitude for the Voice”, he said and after a dramatic pause he added “And there is power in yours.”

If he had hoped for a reaction he'd better set himself up for disappointment. Wulf had always known that Nords who charged their enemies with fierce roars often succeeded in shaking them badly, if not to rout them entirely. Now he had a logical explanation for what he had always believed to be their reputation and though a surprise it was hardly groundbreaking news. He had lived with this ability his whole life. Maybe it would come in handy now.

“So what's all about this being ‘Dragonborn’?”, he enquired when no more came from the old man.

“There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh bestowed the gift upon mortalkind and it has always been the Greybeards' duty and privilege to advise, guide and teach them in the Way of the Voice”, the old man lectured. “Your training will begin tomorrow. Goodnight, Dragonborn.” With those words Arngeir disappeared back into the corridor they had just come out of.

Wulf shook his head at the not so subtle admonition and set off to his own quarters. The fire was still burning when he came back, but otherwise it was silent. “Are you asleep?”, he whispered into the room, not wanting to wake his housecarl because he knew she needed the rest.

“No”, Lydia whispered back almost immediately and the door between their rooms opened. “I'm too excited to sleep”, she admitted and jumped atop her Thane's bed that creaked ominously at the sudden onslaught.

“What did he tell you?”, she began to needle him immediately.

“Knotti?”, Wulf asked and changed into sleeping clothes because despite their fire the room was still cold enough that the wet clothes he had hung up earlier were frozen now. It would take some time for the fire to give off heat as well as light. “He did give me a piece of his mind about how I'd be better off doing what the Greybeards tell me to”, he replied sourly and sat down next to Lydia.

“Oh.” She appeared sympathetic. “What else?”

“Well, there's five of them”, Wulf recounted what he knew “And only Arngeir talks, which is a damn shame because I already want him to shut up”, he said and Lydia stifled her giggles behind her hand as if she was afraid of one of the Greybeards hearing her.

“Then there's a Borri”, Wulf continued “An Einarth and a Wulfgar who, just for the sake of his name, is my favourite out of the bunch. And a Paarthurnax who is their leader, but prefers to stay further up the mountain”, he remembered the reclusive Greybeard Knotti had mentioned earlier.

“How does he not freeze to death?”, Lydia asked with disbelief.

“Who knows?”, Wulf replied and reclined atop the pillows. “Maybe he already did. Went to take a leak and never came back and now the others think he found enlightenment or something.”

Lydia burst out laughing and after a while Wulfryk joined in. It was difficult to let his bad mood get the better of him with his housecarl as company.

“Think of it as an adventure”, she said, rolling to her stomach. “We are the first people to visit since...Balgruuf and Ulfric Stormcloak probably.”

Something about her words didn't sit right with Wulf but the feeling was gone almost as soon as it had come and he let it go.

“You get to learn to shout like the heroes of old”, Lydia mused further, a dreamy expression on her face before it crumbled slowly. “And what am I going to do?”

“I guess you could meditate”, Wulf suggested and groaned. “Fuck, I hope I won't have to.”

 oooo

He was disappointed on the very next morning. Not only was he woken before sunrise, which was an atrocity in itself, but Arngeir asked him to join the Greybeards' morning meditation and without any mention of breakfast at that. True, watching the sun rising from atop the mountain and the light slowly rolling across the lands below, chasing away the fog was a breathtaking experience, but seeing it once was enough for Wulf. He had the unsettling feeling however that he would become quite familiar with the sight.

It took all the self control Wulf could master not to walk out on the guy when Arngeir told him that his training included a rigorous abstinence from food. He had to fast to free his mind from his body and gain clarity and worldly needs would only distract him. He could play along – for now.

If he truly was the Dragonborn, Arngeir had told him and it was evident from his tone that he was not convinced Wulf was what he claimed to be, then the return of dragons had something to do with him. Wulf hoped fervently that he wasn't what the Jarl and soldiers believed and that he would have no more dealings with the monsters. Since he had killed one, and really, he had only dealt the death blow – there had been dozens of soldiers fighting the creature – apparently everybody now thought there was something special about him.

Or mayhaps they were this starved and desperate for a hero. Wulf hated to burst their little bubble of illusion, but he wasn't exactly hero material and would never be.

When they were kneeling upon the rectangle in the main hall that Wulf had once wondered what it was and the Greybeard asked him what word called to him he replied with the first thing that came to his mind “Fire.”

Arngeir just looked thoughtful, staring off into the distance as if he could see something there that Wulf could not. “Are you sure?”, he enquired slowly.

“Yes?” He wasn't.

The Greybeard shook his head and explained “Because we heard the Unrelenting Force Shout, fus ro dah, in the dragon language. Fus, does that sound familiar?”, Arngeir asked with a unfamiliar look of mixed hope and excitement upon his wrinkled face.

“Maybe.” Not really. “I'm still pretty sure it was fire”, Wulf insisted. Whenever he thought back to his fight with the dragon things were blurry and disconnected and many he did not remember at all. It was almost like trying to recall an old dream and he could not tell what had really happened and what he made up right now.

“Fire.” The old man's hand once more wandered to his beard. “Yol. Hmm”, he hummed “If you took the dragon's soul, then maybe its memories of ‘yol’ are why it appears familiar to you”, he reasoned. “But: Fus”, he persisted. “You killed the dragon and took its soul. And afterwards the word burned in you and you Shouted”, Arngeir recounted, his eyes keen and shining in the flickering light of the torches.

“Actually, I shouted the dragon off the tower, killed it and then took its soul.” He had heard the story repeated countless times in the Bannered Mare and all versions agreed at that point. Wulf was less sure whether the light he remembered truly was the dragon's soul leaving its body and doing...whatever it was souls did. It sounded scary, the way Arngeir had put it, like he was some demon from Oblivion. Wulfryk, the soul-devourer.

“That is quite impossible”, the Greybeard dismissed the other Nord's account nonchalantly, fingers fluttering in denial.

This one time Wulf was going to insist. “That's what happened”, he stated firmly, refusing to back down.  

“A Dragonborn takes a dead dragon's soul into himself and it gives him the ability to Shout as the beasts do, without training”, the old man rushed through the explanation. “The dragon's long memories serve as conduit for the power, or so we understand it. Nobody knows exactly-”

“I thought I already had Dragon Blood or do I not?”, Wulf interrupted him before the lesson became too theoretical. He already knew that if he was Dragonborn he was the first one in a _very_ long time, which rendered most of what the Greybeards knew invalid in his opinion. A couple of dusty tomes that they had their information from. And here he had believed they actually _knew_ what they were doing!

“That remains to be seen”, Arngeir retorted, unhappy with his pupil's obstinacy.

“Why are you calling me ‘Dragonborn’ then?”, Wulf needled the old man.

“Out of hope”, the Greybeard answered, not raising his voice despite his obvious annoyance “Although I fear it may remain unfounded.”

“Great”, Wulf muttered in reply. “I'll call you Jolly from now on. Just in case this works.”

 oooo

After a week of doing his best to follow instructions without complaint Wulf had had it with Arngeir, the Greybeards, the Way of the Voice and the rest of the world in general and he certainly wasn't putting up with that nonsense of fasting any more.

“Lydia”, the Nord barked when he stormed into their quarters, still fuming from today's lecture and his teacher's smug superiority that he had been subjected to throughout the morning and afternoon. If Angeir thought that watching him eat would be a lesson in humility and restraint he had not counted upon the set wooden table being blown up, his second set of robes ruined and his ridiculous beard being singed in the process.

“Yes?”, Lydia replied cautiously peeking out of her own room and he felt his anger evaporate only for a tiredness to remain behind.

“I need you to stay awake”, Wulf told his housecarl, dropping limp on the bed. “We're raiding the pantry tonight.”

As she had promised to do, Lydia woke her Thane long after nightfall. The thrill of visiting High Hrothgar had worn off quickly. There wasn't much for her to do here. Only master Wulfgar and master Einarth even deigned to acknowledge her presence and both did not speak. They were both very nice though, in their own way whenever they weren't busy contemplating and practicing their Thu'um. She still suffered from recurring bouts of sickness and Wulfgar kept brewing her infusion, inviting her to sit with him for a while with smiles and gestures. They even got to play an old board game Lydia her found in Wulf's room and Einarth gave her a tour of the library, pointing out books that might be of interest to her of help her Thane in his training.

And then there was Wulf himself who kept her informed about his training and vented his irritation with Arngeir every evening to her great amusement. She now knew four different insults in Ta'agra that, if uttered to somebody knowledgeable of the language, would most likely result in a duel. More were likely to follow.

That night there was no laughter and no cursing as the two of them snuck through the monastery, praying they wouldn't stumble over one of the Greybeards in the dark. Wulf had shown Lydia how to place her feet to keep the noise of her steps down to a minimum and he only risked a tiny magic light once they had reached their destination without a sign of disturbance.

There was no magic guarding the door, just one old battered lock and that was an obstacle quickly overcome. They would carry one bag each and after closing the door both began to fill it with edibles, taking only a little food out of the separate containers so the Greybeards wouldn't notice its disappearance. Lydia had to admit that with Wulf around things were never dull. She tried not to think about what the old men might do to them if they were found out.

“I wish we had saffron”, Wulfryk sighed with a look at the staples of crates and bags.

“What's that?”, Lydia whispered back.

“A spice”, her Thane replied. “We could dye the Greybeards' robes yellow.”

It was difficult making sense of his musings sometimes. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because it is the colour of sunshine and happiness”, Wulf explained “And this place lacks both.”

He locked the door after them and extinguished their light and they tiptoed back to their rooms, where they hid their pilfering as best as they could.

Lydia wavered between feelings of guilt and exhilaration at the success of their nightly mission. “ _I_ wish we had some mead”, she bemoaned the liquor’s absence with longing and watched her Thane rummage through their stolen goods. They spent the rest of the night nibbling at food and Wulf had a handful of hazelnuts that one after the other he tried to toss into her cleavage.

Wulf had always taken long in the morning, but now every time the Greybeard knocked to wake him up and he yelled back that he wanted to sleep, the Nord had to snicker. Because he and Lydia were sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace with a chair lodged beneath the door's handle while they were munching on flatbread, dried fruit and smoked sausage.

Breakfast gave Wulf the fortitude he needed in order to deal with Arngeir throughout the day. To his surprise though it wasn't Knotti who waited for him in the hall, but the Greybeard named Einarth. So the other one was still miffed by their disagreement.

Wulfryk raised his eyebrows at the waiting man and received a small shake of the head in return. Oddly enough Einarth did not seem upset, but rather amused and Wulf wondered if maybe not all the Greybeards agreed with Arngeir. There wasn't much they could say against him without speaking. If so, it might pay off to be on his behaviour today.

The day turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant. They went outside and when Einarth Shouted the clouds away and the sun came out it became almost warm in the courtyard. The Greybeard had brought bowls and they picked a few shrubs of snowberries, one of the few fruits that actually ripened in the cold weather. Wulf was glad that he could do something other than sit and listen to his own thoughts bounce around in his head. He hated being still with nothing to do, but where Arngeir was pushy and obtrusive, Einarth kept his distance and didn't press him for anything. Slowly Wulf felt himself relaxing and when both men had filled their bowls they sat in the highest tower where they were protected from the wind and ate the snowberries, spitting the seeds over the cliff. Maybe one such kernel would hit and knock out one of the pilgrims below.

Next, the Greybeard sat down and Wulf did too, the warm sunshine making him drowsy. He relaxed, not kneeling like Arngeir had always insisted he do and watched the old man through half-lidded eyes. Einarth shouted a few times, mostly to clear the skies, but he also grazed Wulf with FUS and when the Nord sent one of the bowls sailing in his direction, disappeared entirely and the dish hit the wall behind him. He reappeared grinning like a child that had pulled a prank and despite himself Wulf smiled as well. It was the closest he had come to feeling peaceful in the monastery and when next Einarth Shouted, he thought he could sense the meaning behind the word, even if in the end it did escape him. But he remembered how he thought he could understand the dragon at Helgen and since the feeling was similar he chalked the lesson up as a small success.

“I guess I should apologize to Arngeir”, Wulf mused once they were ready to head back inside and he had thanked today's teacher for his patience. “I'm sorry for my outburst.”

It was Einarth's turn to raise is bushy brows.

“You're right, I'm not.” Wulf snorted and laughed. “Most liberating thing I did since I came here.

Einarth just shook his head again and there was the faintest trace of a smile around his mouth. He handed Wulf both bowls and signed him to wash then and Wulfryk found that he did not mind. He hoped Knotti stayed peeved and the other Greybeard would take over his training.

 oooo

“You must hear the word within yourself before you can project it into a Thu'um”, Arngeir said, not for the first time. He sounded about as annoyed as Wulf felt.

Wulf got up early, meditated and did all the exercises the Greybeards wanted him to do, even with the food he snatched from the pantry on a regular basis he was hungry and tired and went to bed long after nightfall, contemplating the words of power and still he could not Shout. Not even a bit. On most evenings he returned late, frustrated with the old farts who made everything sound so easy and with himself for failing spectacularly.

They had tried with FUS, since it was one of few safe words for Wulf to use. He learned a few other words of the dragon language, but since the beasts mostly used it for battle, most Shouts had a devastating effect which did not make them ideal for training.

Secretly, Wulf had tried YOL, the Shout for fire, but to no avail. Arngeir next tried to teach him WULD, a Shout that accelerated one's run, probably in the hope that Wulf would race himself right down the mountainside. He learned that the fading Shout Einarth had demonstrated was FEIM and the one to dispel clouds and fog began with LOK. However, not once since had Wulf come close to that feeling of understanding that he had had with the other Greybeard.

He fared better when with Wulfgar or Einarth, but if there was an improvement it was only marginal. Wulf had to give it to the other Greybeards, they never showed any annoyance with their pupil's ineptitude like Knotti did.

“I think we may have made a mistake in believing you Dragonborn”, Arngeir stated after another day filled with futile exercises and lots of wasted breath on both sides. It had been hanging over them for a long time, the doubt, but none had voiced it thus far.

Two months had passed and Wulf had not mastered the simplest of Shouts. Sometimes he thought he almost understood, like a word forgotten at the tip of his tongue, but nothing ever happened. He had gone through something similar before, floundering in the dark when his Altmer employer had decided to teach him magic and before his first success had shown it had also taken months.

But Cyremon, though not patient, had been enthusiastic about his charge and always encouraged Wulf to try, assuring him that it was just a matter of time until his first spell worked.

Arngeir looked down the length of his crooked nose like he had foreseen his failure a long time ago and all the old man's beard-stroking and disappointing clucks of his tongue were driving Wulf mad. Maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, he could reduce the Greybeard to a pile of smoking ashes with YOL. That was how he first mastered magic, after all.

At least it would be over now that the Greybeard stated what both knew to be true. “You have no gift for the Voice”, Arngeir sighed, finally giving up on his pupil. “I am sorry.”

“How long before a normal person learns to Shout?”, Wulf asked the old man, already suspecting the answer.

“Years”, Arngeir replied and it put a definite end to their conversation and probably to their already strained relationship as well.

Wulf didn't have years. Nor did he have the inclination to stay.

He returned that night with a bitter taste in his mouth and an odd feeling of relief that he could return to Whiterun now that he was not destined to be the Drabonborn after all, only to find his housecarl sitting atop his bed, hands clasped in front of her and a look of fear upon her face that the stalwart warrior had not shown before.

“Wulf?”, Lydia asked in a small voice and he stopped, already sure that he did not want to deal with some new problem. He could not have been more right.

“I think I'm pregnant.”


	33. BTS

“Congratulations.”

For once he said the proper, socially acceptable thing out of sheer shock and he still ended up having furniture thrown at him. Wulf grabbed the first thing that turned out to be a chair and lifted it up as a shield while books and various other objects sailed towards him. Most missed their mark, but what Lydia lacked in accuracy she made up for in strength.

It left her a moment later and with one last furious shout she sank down on his bed. Wulf chanced a peek out from behind the chair. “Are you sure?”, he enquired because she appeared to have calmed down somewhat.

“Pretty sure”, Lydia moaned, wrapped her arms around her middle and hunched over. “What do I _do_ now?”

“Up here there's nothing we can do”, Wulf replied and set down his makeshift shield. He sat down next to her since it seemed safe enough. “Do you want to return to Ivarstead and see a midwife?”, he proposed after some thought. “You could talk to someone who knows about such things.” The Greybeards would be of no help and neither would he. Children were one thing he had never worried about with his preference for men.

And on the topic of men, “Is it Farkas' child?”, Wulf asked, already certain of the answer.

Lydia nodded and he took her hands in his, noticing how slim and fragile her fingers appeared despite the rough callous in her palms and the slight shake and dampness.

“Oh, Mara's tits”, the housecarl cursed with eyes that glistened all of a sudden, the contact having broken something inside her. “What will he say?” Lydia looked up at Wulf like he could offer her salvation when he could not answer her question. “You are his friend.”

He was but one thing he and Farkas had not talked about was family planning. “I don't know”, Wulf replied honestly and rubbed some warmth back into her cold hands. “But I know that if ever anybody would behave honourably, it is him. Maybe the child could be a steward at Jorrvaskr, or you could apprentice it at the temple if you do not want to raise it.”

“I'm not sure I do”, Lydia whispered back quietly, as if ashamed of her confession. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“I don't think so”, Wulf replied, not at ease with the topic either, but not judging. “But I'm probably not the person you should ask”, he added in afterthought. Some people might have rather strong opinions on the matter; however, he wasn't one of them.

“I just never thought about having a family”, the Nord woman explained with an agitated wave of her hand that almost smacked her friend in the face. “I only ever wanted to be a housecarl.”

There were certain poisons that would end her pregnancy, but taking those was dangerous to the mother as well and it felt wrong somehow. She couldn't even bring herself to consider that option in earnest.

“You _are_ a housecarl”, Wulf reminded her, distracting her from such dark thoughts.

“I'm not much of one”, Lydia retorted angrily and proceeded to refute his arguments. Her Thane could take care of himself and yes, she could fight and of course she was loyal to him and the muttonhead could not possibly have thought that she would not accompany him to High Hrothgar when asked.

“Yes, and I'm the first person since forever to see the Greybeards and I _threw up_ on one of them. THAT'S NOT FUNNY, WULF!!”, she shouted when he began to laugh.

After another few chuckles his merriment died down and he became serious again. “You found me after my transformation went all to Oblivion”, he said.

That did not count. “You weren't even in danger!”, the agitated housecarl reminded her Thane.

“But I could have been”, Wulf pointed out and he did not need her glare to know that it was a weak argument. “You broke out of prison to help me when most would have gone running for the Vigilants of Stendarr”, he suggested next. “We wouldn't have been able to save Farkas without you and you've helped the Companions stay afloat over the winter and not even Vilkas had something to criticize you for. That's a first, by the way. I've seen you in the training yard and I’ve seen you handle bandits that would give a seasoned warrior a hard time, two at a time.” Wulf had snuck his arm around his housecarl at some time during his speech and gave her a comforting squeeze. “I think you are a great housecarl.”

“Bandits do not frighten me!”, Lydia protested but with less heat than before. She did not want to be mollified and was aware that her Thane was manipulating her, but that did not mean that it didn't work. She _did_ feel better, damn him and his sneaky compliments.

“But babies do?”

His tone along with the look of incredulous befuddlement made her burst out laughing. Once she began there was no stopping and it drew Wulf right in. “You and Farkas really fit together”, he chortled. “Butch warrior that he is he's afraid of spiders and you, brave daughter of Skyrim, fear babies. Usually it's the other way 'round; you know?”

It was impossible to fret when he was being silly. She did not know what reaction she had expected. Wulf had already told her that that her life was her own months ago when they had done away with the whole housecarl-Thane thing. He did not need her, not really, even despite his touching little speech from before but he pretended to because it made her happy and he did not impose his title on her except in jest. It must have been a sign of how rattled she was when he was being the reasonable one.

“You are right”, Lydia said and sighed to catch her breath. When she wiped at her eyes her hand came away wet. She could not tell whether it was from their hysterical bout of laughter from before or from relief. “I should not be panicking.”

Wulf grinned in answer and stood up. “We'll pack and go to Ivarstead and you can ask about a physician”, the Nord said.

“Pack?”, Lydia repeated.

Wulf nodded at her over his shoulder. “Yes, we're leaving.”

She could not believe that their visit had come to an end so suddenly and without any warning. “What about your training?”, she wanted to know, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that they were returning.

“It's over”, Wulf replied with a self-mocking lopsided smile that was more of a grimace. “I'm not the Dragonborn.”

 oooo

Lydia walked the long, dim corridor in search for a wisp of grey robes that blended almost perfectly with the equally drab stonework.

With a great deal of prompting from Arngeir Wulf had at last given up on his training. But she had not. She knew all the accounts of the dragon attack; she had talked to the soldiers and seen the skeleton when she and her Thane had made a detour to look at the bones after one of their many assignments during winter. Something had happened. Something more than Wulf stabbing his sword through the beast's eye because carcasses didn't just burn on their own and all of the guards had heard him shouting before he had brought the lizard down. The _Greybeards_ had heard his Shout, over a hundred miles away on top of this very mountain and they had called for the Dragonborn.

At the moment said Nord was sulking in his room, alternating between bouts of energy at the thought of departure and gloomy stares at the walls accompanied by long silences. His failure was bothering him more than he let on. If Wulf wanted something, he usually got it and having mastered most of what he had resolved to, from fighting to writing and even magic, didn't make it easier to accept the disappointment.

Who would have thought that for somebody who prided himself on his laziness he could become ambitious in a persistent way that bordered on obsessed?

The Greybeards' teachings took up all of the daylight hours, yet Wulf had always found the time to talk to her nonetheless, sometimes in-between when he claimed to have snuck away in secret, sometimes after. Lydia was glad for these moments of company because for the most part she was on her own with absolutely nothing to do. It was driving her crazy and she had tired of reading and taking walks in the first month and if she polished her sword one more time she could use it as a looking glass.

Unwanted, her thoughts drifted back to Whiterun and Jorrvaskr. She missed the hubbub of a busy city, the feeling of life around her and the noise. She missed the guards with whom she still went drinking to the Bannered Mare and the Companions who had become a surrogate family. It was true that she had come to know them at must have been the worst time for them. Shortly before she and Wulf had left everybody had been overworked and tense, the attack of the Silver Hand still fresh in their minds and with Torvar crippled for life, with how empty the mead hall was, it was impossible to forget.

Farkas was doing better, thankfully, and they had spent much time together whenever Wulf had been out with one of his shield-siblings instead of his housecarl. Lydia strongly suspected that he had taken along the others to give them some time together. It was a curiously caring gesture that he probably would not admit to.

Up here in High Hrothgar and without Vilkas to rub him in all the wrong places, Wulf turned back into a decent person.

Except for secondhand accounts of the event, she did not know what had happened in Jorrvaskr with Vilkas to make Wulf blow up as he had done, at the man and at her when she had mentioned it several days later. Nor did she know why he screwed himself into Oblivion through Skyrim's eligible warriors, but that really was none of her business, even if she disapproved.

But she was curious and she would get the truth. Not now, though. Right now she had a Greybeard to convince and her dragonborn Thane to get back on track.

Lydia suspected that it was of no use to see Arngeir. He talked, but did not listen. After half an hour of search with thoughts of home swirling in her head and a feeling of loneliness in her chest she found master Wulfgar. He was sitting cross-legged in a remote corner of a monastery so still he was almost indistinguishable from the background. A pair of shutters was drawn wide open in front of him and snowflakes swirled around the kneeling figure, creating a circle of brilliant, pure light and setting on the fabric of his robes and the floor tiles in a light dusting of white.

“Master Wulfgar”, Lydia began after clearing her throat and the Greybeard looked up, curious, because though she still visited him occasionally, she her not interrupted his meditation so far. “We need to talk.”

She had brought paper and nicked Wulf's writing set as he didn't need it right now and she would be able to communicate better with the Greybeard.

He nodded in answer, surprised but not angered by her intrusion and took the paper and quill she had handed him. Lydia was not sure where to begin at first, so she told him of the events that had happened in Whiterun, about how Wulf was frustrated by Arngeir and vice versa and that she just knew that he was the Dragonborn. It was easier to continue once she got started and Wulfgar listened attentively, not interrupting her. When the housecarl was done, he beckoned for her to follow him and together they sought out Einarth, whom Lydia retold her tale until she was hoarse. Despite not having spoken a single word she knew that the Greybeards were communicating with each other. After decades of living together in silence she guessed a person became adept at speaking with their eyes and hands. If only she understood some of it, because they came to a decision at last, nodding at t he same time, and she had no idea what it was.

Lydia soon found out when Wulfgar scribbled ‘Arngeir’ on the paper she had handed him earlier and the three of them set out to find the other Greybeard, taking a detour through the library where Einarth picked a tome from the shelf without as much as looking at it. It was old, and the leather cover had been polished and was nearly shining from the many fingers that must have handled the book. She thought she glimpsed a black dragon burned into the front, but she wasn't sure.

Arngeir was in his quarters and with the other two Greybeards backing her up, he had to listen to Lydia as she recounted everything – for a third time. At least the practice made her sound more assured of herself now, when it mattered most.

“-Of the dragon, only a skeleton remains”, the housecarl ended and smiled at Wulfgar when he handed her a cup of water.

“This is troubling news”, Arngeir sighed, one hand resting at the cover of the book Einarth had placed in front of him. “So a Dragonborn had to be present. We know for it has been recorded in history, several times, the incidents all linked to a dovahkiin. Could it be someone else?”, he enquired, tiredly.

“No”, Lydia answered, full of conviction. “It's my Thane. The soldiers all saw him go up in a white flame that consumed the dragon's flesh, but he was unharmed.”

“The Divines work in mysterious ways indeed”, the old man sighed again, shaking his grey head. “I do not understand them. Why sent the dovahkiin, only to silence his voice?” His hands slid back into their wide sleeves and she heard him mumble to himself. “This is most troubling indeed.”

“So you will agree to teach him again?”, Lydia enquired, holding her breath while the two men who had accompanied her shared a pointed look.

“No”, Arngeir replied, sounding defeated all of a sudden. “For now I shall leave that part to master Wulfgar and master Einarth.”

He did not see Lydia grin in triumph after she had thanked him and turned to walk back to her room.

 oooo

“I'm going to Ivarstead.”

Wulf glanced up from his pack which was lying atop the bed, half full. He was busy rolling up clothes and absently asked “Don't you mean ‘we’?”

“No, Wulf”, Lydia replied and deliberately set his pack aside so he would have to pay attention to her. “I talked to Wulfgar, he and Einarth agree that Arngeir made a mistake. They will take over your teaching.” She saw the protest in his stance before he actually said a word and quickly added “Just a while longer, yes? I need time to think. And I need to do it alone.” It was weak as excuses went, because here she had been exactly that and they both knew it.

Wulf let it go this once. “Will you be alright on your own?”, he asked instead.

“I can take care of myself”, Lydia replied trying not to sound offended because he meant well.

“You have been ill”, her Thane retorted as explanation.

“Yes”, Lydia bit back “And I'll think of you when I get sick.”

“Hey!” Wulf kicked his pack back under his bed. “Fine”, he agreed sounding annoyed. “Even if it's a complete waste of time because I'm _not_ the-”

“Do you want to change places!?”, Lydia shouted, exasperated. She would do so in an instant if that meant that she wouldn't be sick and queasy and have to run up and down the mountain again and let's not forget, have a child growing in her belly. Wulf shook his head quickly.

“Then pick your whining, self-pitying, lazy, obnoxious ass off the floor and go!”

When he was gone without a second of hesitating and with a somewhat fearful look at his housecarl Lydia allowed herself a small chuckle. “Wow”, she said to the empty room and grinned. “That felt good!”

 

xxxx

 

“How are the lessons going?”

Wulf had heard the crunch of footsteps over snow from afar, but it made the people around him nervous when he acted on his new heightened senses and he pretended not to notice. At first because he had not wanted to give himself and the other Circle members away to the whelps and though Lydia already knew his little secret, he kept up the pretence because one day the practice would come in handy. The housecarl had been gone for ten days, but he had found her stuff in his room this afternoon – why was everything always rolling around on _his_ floor anyway? And he had known she was back, though he had not sought her out because his break was nearing an end and he did not want to miss Einarth and Wulfgar practicing their Shouting.

Wulfryk shrugged in answer. The lessons were better and far more pleasant than they had been with Arngeir, but with just as much success.

“I bet I'm the worst Dragonborn to ever live”, he said. “Or Tongue. Doesn't matter, really.”

“You don't really know that”, Lydia corrected him and sank down next to her Thane on an elaborately carved stone bench after she had swept most of the snow covering it aside. She smelled of the fur she was cloaked in and of the biting wind and Wulf realized he had missed her presence.

“ _I_ bet most of these books were written when either the hero was long dead or when he was looking over the scribe's shoulder”, the housecarl went on. “Nobody would ever write it down if Ysgramor lisped or Tiber Septim had an unsightly wart at the tip of his nose. That's the parts that get left out of books.”

“You know, I don't think anybody is going to write books about me”, Wulf snorted sceptically.

“Who knows”, Lydia mused. “I bet they'll do. You'll end up a nine feet tall giant with a cloak made of dragonskin and with hair blond as wheat. I hope they won't forget your housecarl.”

“Sure, your bravery at High Hrothgar should go down in history”, Wulf laughed and Lydia joined in. “You seem better”, he asked her when the last chuckles had died down.

“I do feel better”, she replied. It had done her a world of good to set out on her own, even if it had been only a climb to the village. She no longer felt impotent as she had since coming here, and talking to Ivarstead's only midwife had helped her immensely in regaining her strength and finding an inner peace. There was nothing wrong with being pregnant. In the company of warriors and men it was difficult to remember that this was not some illness, but that giving life to this world was a blessing. Not one she had asked for, but still. It happened to most women and if others knew how to deal with it so would she. There always was a chance that she would lose the babe, she knew this much from her mother and the midwife had been kind and wise, but did not keep the truth from her either.

“I have decided”, Lydia began after a moment of quiet and scooped up a handful of snow from the bank and pressed it into a globe, watching water drip from between her fingers. When Wulf lifted his brows she declared “I am going to keep the child.”

“That's...good.” He meant her having made a decision, Lydia knew, not the outcome of it. Still, when he bumped his leg into hers she bumped back and both were glad they did not have to discuss it any more. Neither of them knew what the future held in stock, but it was of no use worrying about it.

“I want horker stew”, Lydia suddenly said wistfully as if she could already taste a thick broth with root vegetables and the aromatic meat swimming in its own gravy. Wilhelm had been an excellent cook and after climbing up the mountain she was ravenous; a hunger that could not be stilled by the meagre fare the Greybeards had in store.

“Horker stew”, Wulf repeated, startled by the sudden change of topic and cast a long-suffering look at the woman who could match Farkas in appetite. “Of course.” They were on the world's highest mountain and she'd want something that swam in the sea. “Well, we have melted snow”, he deadpanned with a look around and suggested “I could throw in a few rocks for nourishment.”

“What do the Greybeards live on?”, Lydia enquired and cast her eyes around as well. The snowy courtyard did not yield the answer to her question and neither had living with the reclusive old men so far.

Wulf did, though. “Self-Righteousness, fraudulent piety, deceptive benevolence and nonexistent zest for action”, he counted out promptly.

“Remind me, whom are you talking about again?”, Lydia retorted sweetly and got a disgruntled mumble in return the words of which she could not make out.

“Want me to go hunting?”, the Nord offered after a while.

“You'd do that?” She wasn't much of a hunter, neither overly patient not too skilled with a bow. Scaring the game away before she ever had a clear shot made the whole thing even trickier. Lydia hated hunting with a passion.

“Everything for my favourite housecarl”, Wulf replied with a too-wide grin and regretted it when a snowball splattered wetly against the side of his head.

That night Wulfryk wrote a letter to the villagers of Ivarstead to bring proper food and, if possible, drink. He signed it ‘The Starving Dragonborn’ and placed in the chest that the Greybeards put coin in for Klimmek to reimburse him for his efforts. This time the Nord would find a very generous donation, but then Wulf was desperate and the danger of a hungry, pregnant housecarl should under no circumstances be underestimated.

His either very early or very late hunting trips were unsuccessful more often than not. On occasion he managed to shoot a young mountain goat and the meat would serve them for a while though it was not particularly tasty, but still better than weeks of dry rations, flatbread and groats.

Lydia had all the stealth of a walking armoury, so Wulf ventured out alone. He could sleep off his tiredness after a night's hunt in the daily meditations, after all. Although he did have a hard time to keep a straight face when a passing Arngeir praised him on his newfound inner calm and depth of immersion.

“What are you doing while meditating?”, Lydia asked one evening when she found Wulf working on something at the desk. He looked tired, more so than he had back in winter.

“Huh?”, her Thane looked up, startled and rested his chin in his hand. “Just thinking about stuff”, he answered with a shrug.

“Shouldn't you clear your head?”, the housecarl enquired. She had overheard some of what the Greybeards were trying to teach him and could not help but feel curious.

Wulf grunted unhappily. “I fall asleep when I do that.”

“So what are you doing now?” Lydia came closer to peek over his shoulder. “What's this?” There were pages littered with strange symbols that did not make any sense to her and with a small, well-suppressed shudder the housecarl realized it had to be magic stuff.

“You know what it is going to be when we get back?”, Wulf asked, ignoring her second question for the time being.

She was about to point out that he could not interrupt his training, not now, when he cut her short. “You _have_ to get down and I can always return.”

There was no arguing with that. She could not, would not give birth up here and if they stayed a few more months she would depend on help. “No”, Lydia answered, letting the other matter rest.

“Nearly Midsummer”, Wulf told her. “I'm thinking about gifts for the others. Aela and I we did that last time, it went really well.”

“How is she?”, the housecarl wanted to know.

“Still grieving for Skjor”, Wulf said. “But she won't show it and she doesn't want to talk about what happened at Gallows Rock. Gods know I don't want to, either.”

Lydia nodded. After what she had seen of the Silver Hand she understood why somebody would not want to relive these memories. “So, do I get something?”, she changed the topic before it became too glum.

“I've already got something for you”, Wulf replied with a cheeky grin and she knew she would get no more out of him.

“And this?” The housecarl pointed at the desk and the pages filled with funny symbols.

“This is for Shivers”, her Thane answered readily. “He was so miserable during winter I thought if Njada won't keep him warm, this might.” Wulf lifted a cloak from his lap that she had not noticed before.

It certainly looked warm, but...“Where did you get this from?”

“I found it”, the Nord replied and when he saw the look she was giving him he turned all serious. “What? Whoever has lived here hasn't been in need of it for the past twenty years. Why should it rot here, abandoned, where it is of no use to anybody?”

“Alright”, Lydia said just to get him to stop. When Wulf began to make up justifications for one of his less than lawful actions it was best not to let him continue. He might just convince her if he went on like this. “A cloak”, Lydia agreed. “Is that all?” It did not explain what the mysterious signs were there for.

“No, I'm working some runes into it for a heating spell”, he replied, visibly proud of his idea.

“Why don't you just enchant it?”, the housecarl wanted to know. What he was doing looked to be terribly complicated and she knew that most mages used the enchanting tables if they wanted to make a spell stick to things. That was about all she knew on the topic.

“Because enchantments require soul gems and I don't have those, nor do I know the first thing about enchanting”, Wulf answered patiently. “What I'm doing is...Do you really want me to go into detail?”, he asked.

“Uh, no”, the Nord woman said, happy she would not have to listen to some long-winded explanation. “Spare me. What else have you got?”

“I'm working on a strap design for Ria”, Wulf explained and dug around his drawings a bit until he could present her with something she definitely did understand. “We did a lot of training. She cannot hold a shield properly, but if the handle is moved to the side she can strap her arm to the shield. Her hand though is too small to withstand a blow, that's what's giving me quite a headache”, he continued and looked up at his housecarl who was standing bent over him, studying his drawings like he saw her for the first time. “Actually, you could help me.”

“Sure”, Lydia agreed immediately. It felt good to do something productive. “We could spar tomorrow”, she proposed, at once sounding excited.

“We don't have training swords”, Wulf reminded her.

She wasn't willing to let it go. Too long had she sat around, dangling her legs and watching her Thane try to stay awake during his 'meditation'. “We could use sticks.”

“Sticks are shit as substitute”, he grumbled. “But I guess we have nothing better.” It would be good to spar and keep in form. Come to think of it, he could barely await the morrow, to move once more and to feel alive as one only did when fighting.

“So Ria gets a shield”, Lydia mused and interrupted her Thane's thoughts of battle. “I think she'll like it. Did you know she calls herself Ria Halfhand now?”

“Yes”, Wulf said. “My nicknames tend to stick.”

His housecarl shot him a sceptical look. “Do I have one?”, she asked, suspicious of her Thane's innocent smile. “A nickname.”

“Do you want one?”, Wulf countered.

Lydia thought about it for a while before answering. “Only if it is something befitting a great warrior, something to strike terror in the hearts of our enemies, to bring honour to the name of húscarl and to inspire Nord generations to come.” There, let him come up with something.

Apparently Wulf saw the entire matter somewhat differently than she did and he matched her smile with one of his own. “Well, there is one”, he said, dragging out the words enough to let her know she probably wouldn't like what was coming. “I was thinking about – Giggles.”

Lydia took a deep breath and another one and resisted the urge to try and knock some sense into him. Others had failed before her and she did not want to rattle what little brains he had left. “What about Farkas?”, the housecarl asked and gave in to the desire and clouted him when he burst out laughing.

“I thought I could wrap _you_ up as a gift”, Wulf shot back, still chuckling, despite or maybe because of her annoyance.

‘Let's see who is going to laugh tomorrow’, Lydia thought with unvoiced satisfaction at the mental picture of her Thane taking a tumble in the snow.

When Arngeir asked Wulfryk on the following day why he would not join their meditation all the other Nord did was pick up his shield, grin and say “ _This_ is my meditation.”

He and Lydia fought every day from now on, and they both felt better than they had during the previous two months. When Klimmek arrived with food soon after they hoarded it wherever they thought the Greybeards would not find it. They had yet to discover their nightly forages into the storeroom so Wulf thought it was safe to assume they would not do so anytime soon. Arngeir would just lock it away and what a waste that would be, since half of the village must have contributed after receiving his desperate letter. Wulf pitied the mules who had to haul it all up.

 

xxxx

 

The fifth month up in High Hrothgar was coming to an end when Wulf was startled up from his work by loud cursing.

“Oh, damn it!” The housecarl cried as she ran back to the single stove in the kitchens to move pots and put some of them down.

A moment later the unpleasant smell of burning food reached Wulf's nose and he put down his work to glare in her direction. There went their supper.

“You're a woman”, Wulfryk remarked as if noticing the fact for the very first time.

“Yes?”, Lydia retorted, sounding stressed and disgruntled with him already.

“How clumsy can you be in your natural habitat?”

The housecarl tossed the thick cloth she had been using as a mitt at his grinning face but it unravelled mid-air and hit the ground with an anticlimactic splat before it got halfway there. Of course that made Wulf grin harder. Sometimes Lydia hated him.

“Shall I remind you of how you landed on your behind during our last spar?”, she growled. “No? Then shut up and keep sewing.”

With a grunt of his own he did. “Why do I have to sew and you can cook?”, Wulf complained without looking up again.

“It's your own fault for saying ‘ _I'm good with my hands’_ ”, Lydia said, mimicking his erstwhile lewd tone. There were only so many puns a housecarl could stomach. Not that she wasn't grateful that he helped her alter her clothes since before long she wouldn't fit into her old ones. Wulf was no tailor and the results were far from fit for a Jarl's court, but he did not botch the stitches like she had done on her first attempt, before he had ripped the cloth out of her hands and salvaged what he could. “Besides, your cooking is not edible.”

“It's edible”, Wulf replied affably and bit through the thread after he had tied it off with a double knot to critically eye his work. “Our opinions seem to differ, however, on the matter of whether it's enjoyable.”

 oooo

A month later the Nord found Lydia sitting by herself in the empty courtyard looking forlorn and lost, and hugging her swollen belly. He presented her with a chivalrous bow and a bouquet made from dry twigs, brush-wood, snowberries, moss and the few mountain flowers that bloomed up here. “What's your name, pretty maiden?”

“Shut up”, Lydia snapped at him and with a sullen glower at the offering and rubbed her lover back that she said was always aching now.

“Shutup?”, Wulf repeated, unimpressed with her emotional outburst. “That's quite unusual.”

He did not expect to be almost strangled by his housecarl when she decided she needed a hug. Her moods were changing more quickly than the weather and her pregnancy was clearly visible now. Sometimes the child moved and at Lydia's insistence Wulf had felt its kicks. He wasn't yet sure whether it was more fascinating or disturbing.

“What's wrong?”, Wulf prompted and disentangled her arms from around his neck gently.

“What's wrong!?”, Lydia half-cried, half-shouted. “Look at me! I couldn't fight to save my life, much less yours, I have to pee every two hours, my breasts hurt and I'm _fat_!”

“You're not fat”, Wulf consoled her, rubbing her back because that seemed to work miracles. They had talked about healing, but they did now know what effect it might have on the baby and decided against it. “There's just - _a lot_ of you.” He pointed to a stone bench to their left with decorative dragon carvings on its sides and offered his arm as a support. “C'mon. Let's waddle over there.”

Once seated he emptied out his pockets. They still had some walnuts left from Klimmek. Wulf took two in his hand and crushed them one against the other, handing one to Lydia for her to pick at. It had become his most successful tactic, to throw food at her as a manner of distraction. So far it had been most effective and he was not let down today.

“How long has it been?”, the Nord asked while his housecarl nibbled at the nuts.

“It will be six months in about a week”, Lydia said, not needing to ask what he was referring to. The midwife had told her about the discomforts she would have to suffer, but three more months of them? She wished she could just give birth and be done with it. The pain couldn't be as bad, as everybody said, could it? She was a warrior, she could deal with pain. It was far worse to be big and clumsy and not able to see your toes.

On top of it all most of the time she did not know whether she wanted to cuddle Wulf for his unwavering support or to punch him in the face for constantly making fun of her. Although at times he appeared to be as exasperated as she felt and admittedly, she was a bit unstable. Maybe she would make him a pie; the man always got easier to deal with when his stomach was full, she had noticed.

“We'll have to go soon, or you'll have a hard time climbing down later.” Lydia just nodded in answer, and Wulf resumed “Tomorrow I'm going down to see Klimmek about some mules.”

He had written the letter already, but there was something else he wanted to do and both Lydia and the Greybeards would object if they knew. From the tales Wulf had always believed that High Hrothgar was located at the top of the Throat of the World, but the monastery was only about halfway up the mountain. The rest towered above it, solid rock and slopes covered in snow, massive and imposing in its sheer enormity.

Wulf was going to climb it.

Had to, because something was there and it was waiting for him.

The first time he noticed had been during one of his walks with Einarth. He had looked up and found that the mountain appeared to be alive. A watchful silence settled over High Hrothgar, unnoticed by the Greybeard at his side.

Day after day Wulf's attention began to waver until the icy heights were all he could think about. They seeped into his mind when awake and asleep, unbidden, making him restless.

Whatever it was, it came from further up so that was where he was going. He had packed everything he could think of being of use. Food and wood and every last piece of warm clothing he had were just the basic necessities, as were snowshoes, a map of the mountain from the library and the cloak he had made for Athis. This was the perfect opportunity to test it.

Wulf set out on the following morning before the sun had risen to avoid having to explain himself to the Greybeards why he was going in the wrong direction. They knew of his departure to Ivarstead and would not expect him for a couple of days.

‘If anything happens to you, they won't come with aid’, a more reasonable part of his mind said.

He ignored it and walked up to the gate that blocked the path that led further up the mountain. You were always alone, in the end.

Wulf circled around the iron gate, not bothering with trying to open it since it must have been frozen solid and at last he stood upon the trail that would lead him towards the top of the mountain. Another two days of ascent awaited him, if he was lucky.

He began by using a small rock to scratch the cliff to his right. A few heartbeats later a small magical rune was anchored to the miniscule chink. Making a chain of them would hopefully allow him to find his way back should the weather not hold. Wulf took deep breath, cast one glance back to High Hrothgar and began his climb by putting one foot in front of the other. Immediately an icy wind buffeted him, tearing at his clothes as if it wanted to rip them away. The Nord tightened the scarf around his face and pulled up his second hood. Was it just his imagination or was it becoming colder the further he was away from the monastery?

At first following the path was easy and he could walk on rock. Whoever had bothered carving stairs up here must have been incredibly determined. Or bored. But the further Wulf went, the more difficult it became. Small fields of snow became larger and then deepened until he regularly sank down to his knees. It was incredibly tiring walking like that, ankles bending in all the wrong directions, the weight of his pack dragging him down and the snow trying to find cracks in his gaiters to trickle through.

Before noon he was forced to take the first break to strap on the snowshoes and to catch his breath. Wulf buried his nose in the fur of his scarf and inhaled deeply. He felt slightly dizzy from the strain of the climb, but kept his mouth firmly closed since breathing through the mouth was the quickest way to catch cold in the lungs. The Nord could already feel exhaustion set in his limbs and had to remind himself that reaching the top was only half of the journey.

Thankfully, the snowfield in front of him looked to be relatively level and with the snowshoes on it should make for easier going than before. The stop had lasted only a few minutes but it was enough for the dizziness to pass and Wulf continued on. His beard and eyelashes were clumps of ice, and he had to turn his head from the wind because it froze his eyes closed. At least the sun remained behind a layer of clouds or he would have been completely blinded. A cloth tied across the eyes could prevent one from losing one's eyesight and having grown up in the mountains Wulfryk was familiar with the perils of the mountains.

Most there could be nothing done about. He sent a quick prayer to whichever God was willing to listen to keep him safe from avalanches and crevasses. There had been enough tales coursing through Bruma of careless or simply unlucky trekkers who had fallen through a thin crust of ice and into blue bottomless depths, to be swallowed by the mountain.

Wulf made it safely over the snow and back onto rock where he held his second break, conscious of the fact that he would have to find shelter for the night soon. He heated some snow in a pot with the help of magic until it was warm enough to be safe for drinking and tossed in a frozen chunk of honey and some salt and watched them dissolve. The brew tasted disgusting but it quenched his thirst for the time being and he could resume the strenuous climb to the top.

A while later when the light was already greying out with twilight he spotted an overhanging cliff and behind it a small cave. It was unoccupied; apparently up here nothing lived anymore. It was not a comforting thought, that he was the only human being far and wide. Wulfryk knew how lucky he was to find even such a small alcove and he quickly erected his tent and built a fire – again with the help of magic. The Nord let his food thaw over the fire and lit a small candle inside the tent to warm the air up a bit. It was astonishing how much heat such a small flame could generate, but with the fire came the realization of just how _cold_ he was. Now that he was no longer moving Wulf's muscles became stiff and sore and he noticed that the feeling in his hands and feet was wrong.

The frozen pot of healing salve quickly joined the food over the fire and when he applied it, sensation came back quickly and with a burning worse than flames. The damage had to be superficial, then. He had caught frostbite, but some dead skin, blisters and black nails were harmless as long as he could keep the chill from setting deep in his limbs.

After he had eaten Wulf curled up with every piece of clothing on, wrapped in Athis' cloak. ‘Shivers would be pleased with his gift’, was the last thing he thought as his own shivering subsided before he fell asleep.

 oooo

Wulfryk awoke early on the following day and it took more willpower than it should have to get going. He felt sick; his head had begun to hurt and there was a pressure inside it that made him almost lose his balance twice. Wulf tried to get the pressure out of his ears and ended up healing his headache away. He had been mostly spared by the height sickness and after several months spent in High Hrothgar both he and Lydia had grown used to the altitude, but here it was another thing entirely. His very bones ached and nose felt sore, the freezing air as dry and sharp as a blade. In the back of his throat Wulf thought he could taste blood.

When the ice wraiths attacked he set them aflame and watched in satisfaction as their fragile bodies cracked and finally shattered. He picked up the remains, translucent and brittle and remembered how his father told him of an ancient and now barely observed custom how the Nords of old had to kill one of the creatures as part of a rite to initiate them into adulthood. Wulf pocketed the remnants. They would make a nice souvenir if he survived this trip.

The weather held for a few more hours until a mist descended; or maybe the clouds had been blown up, Wulf wasn't sure. His orientation was gone, senses dull, his overtaxed body not willing to respond to the simplest of commands.  It took everything he had to move his legs that were heavy as if laden with lead and to make the next excruciating step. If he slipped, the Nord was not sure whether he would find the strength to get up again.

Something was bothering him, though. It took a long while for him to figure out what it was, exhausted as he was physically as well as in mind.

It was becoming warmer, not colder.

A few hundred feet further up Wulf shed his outer layer of clothing, because he had begun to sweat for the first time in what seemed forever. Snow was swirling around him, white and opaque like a veil in a theatre that was there to keep him from beholding what was behind it, but the cold had abated. Wulf wasn't sure why, but he felt a faint tingling. Magic. It came from further ahead and he was so tired he only now noticed it now that he was almost on top of it. The faint currents of energy guided his step from now on, robbing him of all thought, his only will to reach the source. When his hands trailed over the markings in the strange stone wall he had encountered once before in his life, the Nord knew he had reached his destination.

And, unexplainably, here, protected from the wind and drifting snow, it was downright warm and he could breathe with ease. Wulf moved his fingers and toes to make sure this wasn't just a trick of his mind, that he wasn't freezing to death, but no, his limbs responded smoothly, though slowly and with no small amount of pain.

There appeared to be something overhanging the wall and the Nord crawled beneath it and straight into his bedroll. He no longer felt anything but a spreading numbness and amidst the white he could see absolutely nothing. But the stone was warm at his back and with his eyes closed he watched the invisible patterns the torrents of magic around him wove.

In the morning it was hard to tell who was more surprised to wake up with company, Wulf or the dragon under whose wings he had taken shelter.


	34. BTS

Wulf was woken be a deep rumble that he could feel in his bones and that shook the very ground he was lying upon. He opened his eyes in time to watch what he had believed to be an overhanging cliff shudder and come to life and shake off several layers of snow with a snort that blew the white powder a couple of feet wide, forming a glittering spray in the sunlight.

“ _Mik-faen_!”

He only realized he had spoken aloud when a reptilian head swung his way, scaly lids rolling back to reveal a glowing grey eye. The slit pupil quivered, adjusting to the light, searching for the source of the disturbance as Wulf frantically tried to kick off his bedding that his legs had gotten tangled in.

There was something mesmerizingly beautiful in the way the dragon's neck swerved and reared up, sleek as the rest of the beast was bulky and covered in spikes. Wulf had little time to appreciate the sight; he caught the glint of intelligence in its eyes, the curious tilt of its head and then the furs piled around his ankles and he was up.

He sent a fireball at the monster, didn't stay to verify that it would miss his intended mark, but grabbed his sword and ran. Wulf did not waste one thought that a couple of hundred feet from the magic wall he would surely die of exposure for this one encounter he was certain he would not survive. He could worry about everything else later. Behind him the dragon bellowed in rage as the fiery magic exploded against its scaly side.

If only he could reach the rocks, maybe there was a place he could hide? A crevice, a space between two boulders? But the snow deepened and Wulf sank down to his knees without the snowshoes. He was slow and tired after yesterday's climb and the low, heard-stopping _thump_ of a dragon's wings was a sound Wulf would never in his life forget. Slow and powerful it battered him to the ground again even as the beast shadowed the sun for a moment. He was a hare, ready to be picked off by a falcon.

When Wulf righted himself again it was to see the dragon land between the cliff and him with a spray of snow, making the ground tremble and effectively cutting off his further way.

“Who dares disrupt my _hadriidak_?”, the beast thundered shaking its massive head and its spiky tail leashed at the ground, tearing deep furrows in the ice.

There were more fireballs where the first had come from and apparently the lizard realized that, wary of approaching further. It struck Wulf as hilarious that he should find himself at an impasse with something that could swallow a horse whole, breathe fire and outmatched him in strength a hundred times over.

Yet, sometimes, pretence mattered.

For now the dragon appeared more interested in an answer than in ripping him to bloody shreds and if the only thing Wulf could do was to play for time then he was going to. "The Dragonborn", he snarled back, hands clenching around the hilt of his sword to stop them from shaking. Fear and excitement coursed through his body, the danger sharpening all senses.

The warrior did not miss the snarl that followed his words. “Then, by long tradition, the elder speaks first", the dragon bellowed his challenge. "Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin!”

YOL TOOR SHUL!

The dragon did not direct its Shout at Wulf, but the heat was blistering nonetheless, melting a trench in the snow and searing the rock beneath.

And then it was Wulf's time to demonstrate his Shout because dragon etiquette demanded it.

Fuck. He was way out of luck.

" _Hi nokin_!", the beast roared when no Thu'um rose to defy its own. For something that had to weigh a couple of tons it moved remarkably quickly, evading the warrior's second ball of fire as if it had known he would throw it.

Wulf had a stunning view of the dragon's maw, bristling with fangs each as long as his forearm as at the same moment the lizard's head shot forward, quick as that of a snake –

_FEIM!_

–but its teeth closed around air and not flesh and bone.

The eye was right in front of him, grey and vulnerable, the head withdrawing more slowly than it had attacked.

The sweat-slicked grip of his sword grew solid in Wulf's hands when he felt himself snap back into the world. He struck.

The next moment the Nord was aware of sailing through the air. Something cracked in his shoulder upon the impact with the ground and all air was driven out of his lungs. He landed, half-buried in the snow and it trickled behind his collar, freezing cold. Wulf was slow to clamber out, his movement sluggish and uncoordinated. He expected a second attack, be it by its claws or teeth and please, gods, let it not be fire.

When the warrior wiped his face though, the dragon was perched atop the carved wall, its tail agitatedly swishing back and forth, not unlike that of an angry cat. A deep bleeding gash cut across its cheek, starting right below the eye and Wulf could see the white glint of bone beneath torn scales and flesh.

There was a terse moment when neither of them as much as drew breath, and then the beast lowered its head and spoke once again.

" _Drem Yol Lok_."

Drem. Peace. Wulf recognized the word from Arngeir's lessons. A traditional greeting in dovahzul, an offer of a truce.

"Greetings, _wunduniik_ ", the dragon continued as if all before had never happened, its unblinking gaze trailed at the man below. "I am Paarthurnax."

Wulf did not answer. He barely dared to twitch. He felt the cold now, razor sharp as it sunk its claws into him; he would not stand much more of this but he could not move. _Frozen to the spot_ , how apt a saying.

"What brings you to my _strunmah_...my mountain?”

“ _I was just leaving_ ", Wulf responded brusquely, the spell broken and he picked up his sword without letting the dragon out of his sight. Its blood tinted the blade's edge a deep red. He suddenly realized just what the lizard had said.

" _Wait. Paarthurnax?_ You _are the master of the Greybeards_?", the Nord asked with disbelief.

An unhappy rumble followed his words, but the dragon inclined its massive head marginally. “They see me as their master. _Wuth_. _Onik_. Old and wise. It is true I am old." He must have noticed the shivers that passed through the Nord's body for he indicated the shelter of the stone wall with a lazy sweep of his tail. "Come closer. It is cold outside of the _Tiid Ahraan_."

This much was undisputable. Wulf stumbled forward, muscles stiff as planks and barely responding. Being roasted alive sounded almost favourable right now. It wasn't like he had any other choice, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't scared by the presence of the huge beast. Dragon. Paarthurnax.

" _Drem_ ", the master of the Greybeards repeated when he neared and Wulf wondered if dragons could smell people's unease like dogs could.

The carved stone wall was radiating heat like a brazier and it brought back the life to Wulfryk's limbs with a pain like thousand needles. The magic swirled around uncaring about the existence of the man and dovah and slowly, as if loath to startle him again, Paarthurnax climbed from his perch. He pressed the side of his head into the snow just like a human would to stop the bleeding.

"Tell me, why have you come here, _volaan_? Why do you intrude on my meditation?” There was no aggression in the words or his pose, but a weariness lingered between them as Wulf bundled himself up in the enchanted cloak again.

“ _You just tried to eat me”,_ he managed to force out despite the chattering of his teeth. His shoulder hurt and he was pretty sure his ribs were bruised badly. He'd have a look, as soon as he was warm enough.

“A test, Dovahkiin”, the dovah responded calmly.

There would have been no way for Wulf to escape the attack if he had not...Shouted. He decided not to point this out. After all, he might have thrown the first fireball. But then, who wouldn't?

Far worse was that this made it official; he really was dragonborn. Maybe he just needed to fight a dragon to get him to Shout. No wonder Arngeir's teachings about the Way of the Voice were going nowhere.

Another question ripped the Nord out of his musings. The dragon regarded him with its head turned sideways and one grey eye fixed on the man. "I did not know you spoke dovahzul so well."

" _Zu'u dreh ni_." Even as he said it, he knew it to be wrong. Wulf did not speak Dragon, he only knew a few words Arngeir had taught him and yet...

“But you do", Paarthurnax interrupted the thoughts racing around in the Nord's head like spooked horses. "Sit, and we will talk. _Duziir yunkliin_ ", the old dovah grumbled.

If looks could kill Wulf would be a smoking pile of ash. As it was the dragon could easily reduce him to just that. He was big. Way bigger than that dragon at the watchtower had been, maybe even as big as that black bastard from Helgen.

“I'm sorry for, you know. Before." It was difficult to form the words, they felt wrong on Wulf's tongue but an apology was in order. "It is not everyday that I wake up with a dragon”, he said with a faint smile that he hoped was disarming. That particular thrill certainly was happening more often than was healthy.

“ _Friik eim_ ", Paarthurnax responded graciously. "It is not everyday I wake up to a _joore_.” The way he said it made Wulf sound like a tick. A minor annoyance, a bug. When he raised his head so he could look at the Nord more closely, Wulf saw that the blood had frozen on his scaly cheek. The wound still looked pretty painful.

"Do you want me to do something about your...umm...face?", Wulf offered, half hoping that the dragon would decline. If he wasn't exactly enthusiastic at the thought of healing the lizard, he tried not to let on. The dovah accepted his offer after weighing it for a while and maybe it was to be an act of trust on both sides.

Wulf unpacked the pot that contained his magical ointment and eyed its contents critically. It was enough, but he'd have to make more once he was back amongst civilization. _Again_.

"I'll just smear the wound with this ", he said, holding up the pot.

Paarthurnax blinked slowly without answering and Wulf took it as a sign of assent.

He scooped up a goodly amount of the salve out of its pot and approached with the beat of his heart ringing in his ears. The eye that never let him out of its sight was as big as his hand if he splayed his fingers. Wulf tried hard and failed miserably at not thinking about how easily his arm could disappear into that maw of razor sharp teeth. He did his best not to touch the wound, not wanting to find himself at the receiving end of a dragon's defensive reaction. It was with an inaudible sigh of relief that Wulf stepped back when he was done.

After a while the soft golden glow indicated that the medicine was doing its work.

"Ah", the old dovah sighed, as muscle and skin knit together. " _Nox hi_. This is much better. Now, you surely want to know about Alduin", he said. "For that is why you have come, is it not?”

“Who's Alduin?”, Wulf asked, stowing away his healing supplies again and rubbing what remained of it on his hands into his own side and shoulder. Nothing was broken but there was plenty of bruising. At least it was becoming easier to speak Nord, he thought. The haze from before was retreating again. But the memory of left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. What was happening with him?

Twin puffs of smoke rose from the dragon's nostrils. " _Kaag nii_ ", he thundered, the tip of his tail twitching in irritation again. Wulf realized that while his mimic resembled that of a giant cat, it did not give much in the way of emotion. The tail did. It was valuable knowledge he stored away for later.

"What do they teach you!?”, Paarthurnax continued, unaware of where his companion's thoughts has strayed. His voice took on a lecturing tone as he began to recount "Alduin is the bane of _joore_ , a self-proclaimed God, worshipped long ago by some. He is the firstborn of Akatosh. He is your destiny, Dovahkiin. Alduin is the World-Eater."

“World-Eater?", Wulf repeated with less excitement than the news warranted. This sounded bad. _Very bad._ "I hope he chokes on it!”

A hacking growl answered him and Wulf realized that it must be the dragon equivalent of a chuckle. "You might want to get comfortable, Dovahkiin", Paarthurnax recommended and followed his own advise. He stood up and turned two circles before lying down with his head pillowed atop his tail. "The tale of Alduin is a long one and one you need to know."

"Before you begin, may I ask you something?", Wulf hastily threw in. "You seem sure that I'm Dragonborn." He had to know.

“ _Sossedov los mul_. The Dragonblood runs strong in you", the dovah responded and more to himself he added "It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind."

"Own kind." It wasn't the answer Wulf had hoped for. He had been disappointed at failing his training, but to fail as somebody the legend portrayed as instinctively able to Shout made it even worse. "Yeah. I wasn't expecting you to be a dragon."

"I am as my father Akatosh made me", Paarthurnax replied and Wulf thought he could discern a slight tone of impatience in his voice. "As are you, Dovahkiin. Now, _kos stiildus_ and listen!"

The tale of the World-Eater was indeed a long one, especially as it began in the late Merethic Era, some four thousand years ago, give or take a few. The dragon's manner of speech was somewhat long-winded, but its voice pleasant enough to make up for it even id he did strew in many a word in dovahzul. Wulf did not know much of the dragon language and had to deduce a lot.

According to Paarthurnax the world was steadily getting colder. He digressed often from the main topic and mused how maybe Lorkhan's dead body was slowly cooling out. The Nords fleeing Atmora, a continent far north of Skyrim that was now an inhospitable wasteland of ice, so cold only icewraiths still lived there, had taken with them their religion, known as the Dragon Cult. Amongst other animals they worshipped dragons at the head of their pantheon and none of the dov was more powerful than Alduin, the first son of Akatosh.

Wulf remembered seeing such motifs from his venture into Bleak Falls Barrow, which according to Paarthurnax must once have been an old Atmoran temple. The old dovah spoke of Akatosh as his father and of Kynareth as if he personally knew her. His knowledge and sheer age were indeed awe inspiring and the Nord settled back on his bedroll and listened with fascination. Slowly his disquiet at the dragon's presence was abating as the story drew him in. They made no more mention of what had happened earlier; apparently it was to be forgive and forget. Wulf had to admit, he never thought dragons could be friendly or show other human traits, but Paarthurnax evidently enjoyed the opportunity to share his wisdom.

What the other dragons had enjoyed was being worshipped, basking in their power and the admiration and fear they inspired amongst the mortal men, beings they considered inferior to themselves. They had, after all the Voice to enforce their domination and the dragon priests as their vassals, to whom they granted a little knowledge of their power in exchange for unquestioning, blind obedience. Those priest were the ones to whom the task of ruling fell, as the dov had little interest in such mortal affairs. The priests often took after their masters, however, in cruelty and their lust for power, or the absolute truth, as they understood it.

But eventually their subjects grew tired of their leaders' tyranny and rebelled against the priests and the cruelty of Alduin who had proclaimed himself a god. The Dragon War followed and though valiant warriors, the men could not withstand the dragons and priests as they had the Voice, the ability to Shout. Paarthurnax himself admitted to being Alduin's first Lieutenant, as was his right as Akatosh's second son. Alduin's arrogance and egoism knew no bounds though and he demanded the other dragons serve and worship him. It was then that the old dovah began to doubt the way Alduin had chosen for himself. Eventually the conflicted dragon was called upon by Kynareth to bring the gift of the Voice to those who would oppose the World-Eater.

He did as she told him, and with the power to Shout the ancient Tongues turned the tide of the war. Alduin was overthrown, the dragon priests killed and the dragons slain until they were almost extinct. Wielding the Thu'um the ancient Tongues were great war chieftains, their armies nigh unstoppable and they set out to conquer the rest of Nirn. Until they suffered a crushing defeat. Then, the strongest among them sought for answers and meditated and eventually discovered the Way of the Voice. He was Jurgen Windcaller, the founder of the Greybeards and although Paarthurnax was accepted as the master of the Greybeards, he eschewed the position of power having seen where the desire for it would lead those who could not withstand its lure.

It was late in the night when Paarthurnax's deep rumbling voice dwindled into silence and Wulf woke as if from a trance. They had only taken a break for the Nord to eat and from time to time he had tossed the old dragon a chunk of honey. Who would have thought the dovah had a sweet tooth?

"You really like telling stories, hmm?" Wulf was stretched out on his bedroll, chin resting atop his crossed arms. It was rather comfortable and when he rolled on his back the stars above them were as bright and numerous as they had been in the desert. The sight brought a familiar ache to his chest.

"It is long since I held _tinvaak_ with a stranger", the dragon admitted, eyes half-lidded with pleasure, not exhaustion. He had recounted that dragons tended to be vain...apparently this one liked to listen to his own voice. Wulf did not mind.

"I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech." If dragons could shrug Paarthurnax might have done just that. He did not sound sorry at all.

"Why live alone on a mountain if you love to chat?", Wulf asked with raised eyebrows. Those two activities kind of excluded each other.

 _"Evenaar bahlok_. There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed", Paarthurnax answered solemnly. " _Dreh ni nahkip_. Discipline against the lesser aids in denial of the greater."

That discipline probably was the only reason why Wulf was still alive, so he did not argue.

The dovah sighed heavily. “We met under the cover of a storm. You remind me of someone I used to know.” He did not elaborate, but instead his head turned towards the heavens once more. "Do you know why I live _here_ , at the peak of the _Monahven_ – what you name Throat of the World?”

“Because trees aren't big enough?", Wulf suggested. Honesty, he had no idea. "Dragons like heights?", he guessed.

“True. But few now remember that this-", a wing was raised to indicate the space around them from which Wulf could feel the magic seep "-is the very spot where Alduin was defeated by the ancient Tongues. _Vahrukt unslaad_ …perhaps none but me now remember how he was defeated.”

Wulf could not fathom how one could spend centuries alone. He enjoyed being on his own every now and then but he also liked company. "Sounds lonely."

"We _dov_ are not _tinvaakuv_ ", Paarthurnax explained. "There have been many wars fought amongst us for _deylok_."

"But now dragons are coming back", Wulf pointed out. "So you might get company. Hey, will there be dragon babies?", he suddenly burst out and immediately after "How does it work between dragons?"

" _Dur ferviit_!", Paarthurnax roared, head shooting up. He settled back with a rumble like a landslide. " _Vir dreh hi lorot_!?"

Wulf might not understand the words, as the dovah had lapsed entirely into dovahzul but it seemed that was a piece of knowledge he was unwilling to share. His tone really said it all. "Alright, I get it!", the Nord placated the dragon with a grumble of his own. "Dragonsex is off-limits."

" _Bormah hiif zey_!" The words were accompanied by Paarthurnax looking up to the starry sky as if he expected some divine help from above.

"Have you ever been all the way up there?", Wulf asked pointing upwards at where another cliff rose above the place they were resting. He thought he had come to the top yesterday, but as it turned out the peak of the Throat of the World was hidden from sight. He would never make it there, but it was alright; he might as well be the highest up a living person had ever been. He had tried to catch a glimpse the rest of the world that he imagined stretched out below him. There wasn't much to see. A white sea of boiling clouds was the only thing as far as the horizon reached. They looked fluffy, like a blanket filled with down. Wulf wondered what clouds felt like.

" _Nid_ ", Paarthurnax answered, apparently having calmed down somewhat. He sounded regretful when he told the Nord that "It is too high, even for one of the _dov_. Maybe that is why we are drawn to them. The bones of the earth are one of the few things that can humble even an old _dovah_. They are eternal. Indomitable."

"So." Wulf had heard the story of Alduin and of what was supposed to be his fate. He hated to ruin the moment, but..."What now?"

"Now it is time for you to tell your _kalah_ , Dovahkiin."

"There isn't much to tell." Wulf began his story with his coming to Skyrim, and the appearance of the black dragon he now knew to be Alduin in Helgen. He skipped over most what had happened then, but not knowing which detail might prove to be crucial he tried to recall everything regarding his two meetings with the other dragon named Mirmulnir. The one he had killed and whose soul he had supposedly absorbed. Then he had learned that the Greybeards had called and, well, here he was.

"So Alduin and Dovahkiin return together." Paarthurnax was deep in thought and speaking more to himself than to his human companion and Wulf cringed at the title bestowed upon him.

Anybody who expected him to deal with the mess had better set himself up for disappointment. Why did he have to be responsible for the aftermath of a god's failed parenting? Akatosh should have trashed his son's spiky behind properly when he still had the chance.

"Does Alduin's return have something to do with me?", the Nord asked, already dreading the answer. He was not a very good person, had never tried to be and done many questionable things in his past, but to be responsible for the end of the world was a bit harsh a punishment.

Paarthurnax contemplated the question for a long time before answering, though. " _Nii los korasaal_. Or perhaps it is the other way around", the old dovah finally replied without truly providing an answer at all.

Strangely enough, it did make Wulf feel somewhat better, but only a little bit because he still had no idea what he was going to do now. Take up his training, probably. He could not Shout, well, he could just not when he wanted to. He tried. Right then he tried to recall the feeling from before, when he had disappeared as he had seen master Einarth do and when the dragon's head had passed right through him. "Feim!"

Nothing.

Paarthurnax looked at him funny. Wulf would be the first to admit they were royally fucked.

"I've told Arngeir what happened with Mirmulnir", Wulfryk remembered the argument they had had after telling the Greybeard he had shouted in order to kill the dragon, not after he had done so. "He said it was impossible."

Wulf could hardly believe himself it had happened.

"Impossible?" The old dovah regarded him with his head cocked to the side. "No", he decided firmly. "But not probable and I would have doubted your word, Dovahkiin, had I not witnessed the truth today."

Wulf was loath to enquire after what the dragon was _not_ telling him. "Has it happened before?"

" _Geh_. It has. _Diist_ _ahrk Laat, ahrk ful kenlik los geblaan_."

"And it bothers you." Because the old dovah had lapsed back into dovahzul, something he did when agitated.

"It is what you may become that troubles me", Paarthurnax replied not denying it.

"What happened?" Wulf sensed that there was something connected to him, something dark enough to make a several thousand years old dragon who had faced the World Eater uncomfortable enough not to want to talk about it.

Instead of the desired explanation he got a series of instructions. "Go back to the Greybeards", Paarthurnax ordered. "They will send you to Ustengrav for the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Once you have it return to High Hrothgar. Call for me then and we will speak at length. I will hear you", he assured the Nord, not letting him get a word in edgewise. "I need to think now. What occurred did so a long time ago, even for a _dovah_."

"What's happening to me?", Wulf asked in a last attempt to wring some answers out of the dragon.

"You lack _ro_ , balance. When your dragon aspect takes over you may not find your way back to your mortal side. The last thing this world needs is another _thur_."

"Will you teach me?", Wulf enquired. Paarthurnax had managed to suppress his natural instinct to chew on mortals – until Wulf had come along – for centuries. If anybody could teach him how to Shout and without losing control at that it was him. "Arngeir's lessons did not help much."

" _Aalkos_. But not now." That conversation was closed as far as Paarthurnax was concerned.

"So you're refusing to teach me and instead send me half across the country to find an ancient artefact that was some dead Greybeard's drinking horn", Wulf complained. A few thousand years of age lent quite a different meaning to the word 'urgent'. "It's a good thing this World-Eater-crisis isn't an emergency!"

"Killing Mirmulnir dealt Alduin a heavy blow", Paarthurnax replied calmly, not letting himself be baited into an argument upon sensing the mortal's frustration. "He is _gesahlo_...weakened. Whatever he does, you should have plenty of time before he recuperates. We need to be careful now. A misstep might change the tide of the events to follow."

"There will be more dragons coming back, right?" Despite Wulf's former joke about dragon hatchlings that might turn out to be an actual problem. At Helgen they had been surprised and hopelessly outmatched. The Western Watchtower had almost turned out to be a disaster as well. Despite some hero of old managing to capture a dragon at Dragonsreach nearly the entire city of Whiterun was constructed from wood. If attacked, it would go up in a blaze.

"Alduin's deeds leave ripples; like a stone tossed into water", Paarthurnax agreed. "The _dov_ will once more rule the _lok_."

And speaking of the sky; Wulf saw that most of the stars had winked out. Dawn had arrived and as the world around them turned grey with twilight the Nord packed his things. He was about to say farewell to Paarthurnax when another thought struck him. He did not want to go out in the cold again and climb through the snow whilst icewraiths gnawed at his heels. With what was left of his provisions it would be challenging at best. But a dragon could probably fly down within a matter of minutes. It was worth giving it a try.

"Do I have to walk or could you, maybe, give me a lift? You _did_ eat my supplies", Wulf pointed out.

Paarthurnax made a thoughtful humming sound. " _Voth genazend_." Then, the old dovah lunged without warning and this time there was no Shout to save Wulfryk from being grabbed in one giant taloned paw, his pack already shouldered.

Thus, Wulf was introduced to the concept of flying. Upside-down and over the biggest drop Tamriel had to offer and while Paarthurnax could not say that a panicked _joore's_ screams brought back fond memories it certainly was entertaining.

He dropped the unharmed but visibly rattled Dragonborn head first into a deep bank of snow close to High Hrothgar, a soft enough landing.

The Nord freed himself, but his walk was rather unsteady. He hated flying already, and hopefully this first time would also remain his last. Furthermore, clouds were just wet and foggy. It was a huge disappointment all around.

"I think I'm airsick." Wulfryk's stomach had leapt into his throat...along with his lunch. "Vash aar edaji zavis seii!!"

"Talk to Arngeir", Paarthurnax reminded him ignoring the man's vehement cussing. "Get the horn." His powerful wings carried him higher up with every beat.

"Is that all?", Wulf shouted back from below, voice laced with sarcasm,. He was busy trying to dig his pack out of the snow.

"No indeed", the dragon's voice carried over to him like thunder. "If you value your soul and sanity, then above all else, Dovahkiin, avoid the _dov_.”


	35. BTS

"Great." Wulf doubted that Paarthurnax, now dwindled to the size of a bird due to the distance between them, could hear him. He pulled one more time, putting his weight into it and his pack came loose, the Nord overbalancing and landing on his behind. He got up with an annoyed grumble, dusted off the snow and shouldered the backpack. High Hrothgar was looming ahead and he had to find a place where he could spend the day and night because there was no way he could have returned from Ivarstead this soon.

Even so Lydia appeared surprised that he was back already when he greeted her early in the afternoon of the next day. They sat together in the common room, but all other places at the massive round stone table were empty. Wulfryk had opened one of the small wooden shutters; after the cold of the mountain it was almost unbearably stuffy in the monastery. Lydia had wrapped herself into a thick pelt and only lifted her eyebrows at her Thane's odd behaviour.

"How was your trip?", she asked and served him dinner that he accepted gratefully.

Wulf shrugged. "Most of it was rather unremarkable", he said. “Although according to Paarthurnax I have _dovah_ _sos_." The Nord sniggered.

"Paarthurnax?", Lydia repeated, her interest peaked. "When did you meet _him_?"

"Oh. On the way up", Wulf replied casually and vaguely enough that it did not even count as a lie.

“And what's so funny about that?”, she enquired further.

"In Ta'agra", Wulf explained, "'sos' means sauce."

“So you have dragon sauce in your veins”, Lydia said with a faint smile.

“Apparently.”

The housecarl let him finish the bowl, but before she refilled it, she asked, "And what about Klimmek?"

"He'll come", Wulf assured her and dug into his second portion with gusto.

"I guess we should pack then", Lydia sighed and looked around wistfully. "It's strange, you know? I almost got used to being here."

"Don't you miss Farkas?" The Nord was looking at her strangely; he was asking about more than the Companion she had left behind in Jorrvaskr.

"Yes", the housecarl admitted. "But I also worry. About the child", she clarified, out of habit rather than necessity and rubbed her belly lovingly. “I don't want it to be a bastard.”

“Yeah." Wulf dropped the spoon, his appetite gone and looked away, into the white whirling snow. "Nobody does.”

 oooo

They split up not a long time later, each retreating into their own room. Wulf entered what had been his quarter for the past months. He wasn't going to miss it. He would have to help Lydia later as bending down had become a difficulty with that big round belly of hers. He would just pack his own stuff first. The warrior collected all his things, making a pile and began to store them away methodically - those that he could do without at the bottom of his pack and those he might yet need on the top where they were easily accessible. He rolled up Athis' mantle, proud with his handiwork and put the letter to the Jarl that was to be Lydia's gift atop. He had a banner with runes in dovahzul for Farkas that he had found collecting dust in a storeroom and the fifty-sixth volume of the 'Songs of the Return', the final part of the legend around Ysgramor that he had seen nowhere in Jorrvaskr for Vilkas. The Greybeards were not going to miss it; they had several copies in their archives.

Wulf was in the middle of collecting his and Lydia's drawings, designs for a shield for Ria, and putting them into his journal where they were safe from being crumpled, when he gave his charcoal a nudge and it tumbled to the floor.

"Shit!" The warrior jumped up too late to catch it and the pencil disappeared behind the desk, followed by a few loose sheets of paper that were stirred up by his rapid movement. Wulf pulled the chair away and crawled under the table on all fours and yuck, somebody really should dust here in the near future.

He grabbed the charcoal and rolled it outside and stretched to get the paper, when suddenly one of his hands found no support and fell through the carpet. Wulf jerked back and cursed, but a second later he was leaning closer. A missing stone in the floor? Indeed, a rectangular piece of the rug had sunk lower, having been ripped off. And then the warrior noticed that the edges were far too smooth. Cut, he realized, not torn.

Intrigued, Wulf pulled the thick cloth aside and, with his heart beating with excitement, he put it aside and conjured a light to better see what he had just stumbled across. The hole the carpet had covered was not big, maybe six inches in length and a little less across. Just large enough to store away...something someone did not want found.

Wulf blew sharply and withdrew quickly from the cloud of dust that rose. He could see something brownish and when he wiped more grime away, it was to reveal...leather. A wrapping, tied together with a rough cord and he pulled the bundle out and set it aside, brimming with curiosity. Before he opened the mysterious package though, he replaced the piece of carpet and crawled backwards out from under the table.

The Nord sat on the floor with his legs crossed and quickly cut the hemp rope. The leather wrapping was stiff and crumbled when he straightened it and out fell...books. Small ones, the paper frayed at the edges, yellowed and wavy. But the protective leather had done its job and their condition was altogether good.

Wulf opened the first one and stared at the rough, childish drawing of a pair of hairy legs with slippers sticking out of what could only be a dragon's maw. The Nord guffawed at the scene and what could only be one of the Greybeards being eaten by Paarthurnax. There were more drawings, a frowning man he recognized as a younger version of Arngeir, the Grandmaster of the Greybeards, here smiling, there in flight and passages of text that Wulf did not feel like deciphering, the ink having run a bit. Wulf searched for a name, but the journal had none, just the initials U.J.H.

He couldn't think of anybody famous who fit straight away, so the warrior opened the first page to find just what he was looking for: a dedication.

_Dear brother,_

_I wish I was here to congratulate you in person. You may turn nine this year, but don't for one moment think that you'll escape your big sister's hugs when you are back. Father says we come for you on North Wind's prayer, so we will get to celebrate the New Life Festival together. Everybody back home is really excited to hear about the Greybeards! And wait until you see what we got for your nameday! Mother didn't approve, but father and I managed to change her mind._

_Until then here is my gift to you: A journal, so that you may remember all the stories that you will have to tell one day._

_And don't fear to try the confections; they're not poisoned - I tried them on Thorsten and he is perfectly fine (though he hasn't woken up yet to tell me how they taste)._

_Love,_

_Frey_

There was a letter wedged in there as well and Wulf gently pulled it from the cover to which it stuck and skimmed over more congratulations, his eyes coming to rest on the last line.

_Don't listen to Frey. I only poisoned some of the sweets. (If you ever get bored with old Arngeir, offer him the ones with the glazed almonds)_

It did not have a signature. Wulf smiled at the good natured ribbing of what must be a loving family and put the letter back where it belonged. He picked up another book and it turned out to be a code on chivalry and fighting forms, as well as an account of important historical battles with the victorious leader's strategies explained in detail. No light reading, and most certainly not for a boy. The third book was another journal. This time the penmanship was no longer that of a child, but more mature, verging on outright calligraphy with tight angular letters and broad, bold strokes.

The last pages were blank. Still waiting to be filled.

Wulfryk turned the book over and discovered a snarling bear burned into the leather cover. He had seen that before. Where had he seen it? The memory did not want to return, but for some reason it made him think of Ralof.

And then he remembered: on the Stormcloaks' coat of arms.

"Lydia!", Wulf called out, got up from the floor and barged into his housecarl's room without knocking. "A snarling bear on a field of blue, do you know what it stands for?"

"Well, it's only the emblem of Eastmarch", the woman replied with laughter in her voice though she appeared slightly confused over her Thane's agitation. "Why do you ask?"

Eastmarch. "What was Ulfric's father's name?"

Lydia looked at the Nord askew, but by now she was used to the weird twists his thoughts sometimes took. "Everybody just called him the Great Bear", she answered and because he was still staring at her with expectation, "Let me think. Hænir", the housecarl said after a while and nodded. "That's it. Hænir Skírnirson."

"So before he became _Stormcloak_ he would have been called _Hænirson_?", Wulf mused.

"Yeah", Lydia replied simply.

Wulfryk stared at the innocent looking book in his hands that he suspected belonged to none other than the Jarl of Windhelm. The man who had shouted the High King to death and claimed his title for himself. The man who was on the verge of a war with the Empire. Whom Wulf had kicked all across the bench so he could put up his feet on that carriage to Helgen.

“Fuck." And then he thought of something else, something the other Nord had said.

_Legends don't burn down villages._

"He _knew_.”

Lydia patiently, but without much hope for a coherent reply, asked, “Who knew what?”

“Ulfric Stormcloak”, Wulf answered as if it was obvious, the realization hitting him like a charging horse. “Everybody has been talking about how he killed Torygg. Klimmek said he studied with the Greybeards.”

“Sure. Everybody knows that. What does it have to do with...”

Wulf shook his head. He needed time to think, to bounce around a few ideas, but he would keep Paarthurnax's identity a secret. The Nord withdrew into his own quarters and fell into the bed, eyes trailed at the ceiling and the journal clutched to his chest. He did not want to relive Helgen, not even in his thoughts. The screams, the acrid stench of houses that stood aflame, choking on the thick, bitter smoke and the fear that hung over the dying town. And then there was the dragon, black as the night, laughing as it burned the hapless humans below.

The Jarl of Windhelm was probably the only person alive who had not been surprised to see that monster appear out of the sky. Shocked, yes. They all had been. But his quick retreat to the safety of a tower and his sarcastic rebuke at Ralof's disbelieving question coupled with a tone that bordered on derisive left no room for doubt in Wulf's mind. Not with the drawings he had found. Stormcloak had probably known as soon as they heard that omnibus roar.

_Legends don't burn down villages._

Ulfric Stormcloak knew Paarthurnax. He knew about dragons.

Something else did not add up. His hands had been bound in front of him. He could have reached up anytime, removed the gag and Shouted. Why didn't he do it? Tullius was standing right in front of him, ready to execute his men. The Imperials had even killed that one brave sod who had stormed forward.

Ralof had escaped his bonds quickly enough. As had Ulfric and the rest of the captive rebels and Wulf remembered wondering what the man had done to end up being tied up like he had been. For a bunch of defeated prisoners they sure were well organized – and armed. By the time Wulf had made it into the tower with Ralof's help, their ranks were already bristling with weapons.

If half of what they said about the Jarl of Windhelm was true, he and his men could have dealt the Empire a crippling blow that day and gotten away without many difficulties in the chaos of the dragon attack.

Unless the execution had been a farce. Or the Stormcloaks had had some other plan.

But Alduin could not be allied with them, if he was the World Eater. He would never help any mortals, not on purpose. Paarthurnax had made this much clear.

He had also said that it was quite possible Alduin had been drawn by the proximity of a Dragonborn. But if not, if the Stormcloaks really knew something he did not...perhaps Wulf should write Ralof? He cursed when he remembered that his friend did not know how to read and dropped the idea again. He did not want some scribe to know about him being Dragonborn. The Gods only knew where that piece of information would end up.

But...maybe a visit to Windhelm was in order.

 

xxxx

 

Wulf and Lydia talked to the Greybeards that evening and just as Paarthurnax had predicted, Arngeir wanted the warrior to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. It was tradition for a Dragonborn to make a pilgrimage to the tomb and meditate on the Way of the Voice on the way and bring the relic to High Hrothgar.

And, Wulfryk muttered just loud enough for his housecarl to hear, to put it back later so somebody else had the pleasure of doing the same a few hundred years later.

Lydia excused herself then, and managed not to laugh until she was standing outside in the corridor. Her chuckles stopped abruptly when the baby kicked her. "Ow!" She gently prodded it back with one finger and sighed. She could hardly go back in now and decided to go for a walk. Her plans changed when she passed master Wulfgar and he invited her for tea – not the one she had been drinking to cure her of her 'altitude sickness' – and stale biscuits and a rather one-sided conversation. She would miss the old man, she realized with something akin to homesickness for the monastery.

Lydia shook off her melancholy on her way to her and Wulf's chambers with the help of thoughts of Jorrvaskr and the Companions. Any worries she harboured were forgotten when she entered to find her Thane cutting the cover from a book.

“Wulf?" She hastily closed the door behind her. " _What_ are you doing?”

"I need that book", Wulfryk replied and pointed his knife at one of the tomes.

Lydia leafed around in the massive volume to see that it was an instruction to the dragon language, complete with word lists, an explanation on the scripture and an appendix on the nature of the Thu'um. “Maybe you should just ask Arngeir?”, she suggested.

“I did.”

“Well, what did he say?”, she wanted to know.

Wulf cast her a glance that clearly said he could not believe she was asking. “He said ‘no’, obviously.”

"If you want to borrow them, maybe you could talk to-"

“Lydia", Wulf interrupted her. "I'm not borrowing these books. I'm stealing them.”

She had noticed. The housecarl grimaced and sat down on his bed. She had almost given up hope of talking reason into him, but she would give it a try. “What if they find out?”

“They won't.” He sounded very sure of himself and explained, "Look, I swap the covers and they'll think the book is still there. And they don't need it, you should have seen the layer of dust atop it. Paarthurnax has given me the idea. How am I supposed to Shout – to use the dragon tongue – if I don't even understand it? So, I thought that if I learn dovahzul it might help with Shouting." He looked happy with his reasoning and his plan.

He was good with languages, Lydia knew, though learning one from a book would be a challenge. Her Thane had told her all about the Shouts and Lydia agreed that you could not engage in a verbal debate without any, not even the rudimentary knowledge of the language. It wasn't a bad idea, she had to admit. And for the Greybeards to refuse him was just plain dumb. She found herself nodding along and picked up the other book that Wulf had chosen to swap covers with.

“Seriously, the ‘Treaty on the History, Social and Political influence of the Beetroot’?", she asked, reading the title out loud and frowned at his choice. "Why not something like ‘The Lusty Argonian Maid’?”

“There's four old men living by themselves in a cloister", Wulf replied with a grin for his housecarl. "Trust me, those books see _lots_ of use. I don't know what the Greybeards do for fun times, but I bet it's kinky.”

“Oh. Eww." Trust Wulf to find something she definitely did not want to think about. Lydia had the sudden urge to wipe her hands. "I feel dirty now.”

Wulf lifted his eyebrows in mock disbelief and conversationally enquired, “What was it that you were reading? _The_ _Conqueror of-_?”, he did not finish, but let the sentence hand in the air before musing, "Let me guess; it's not about an emperor."

"I don't have to explain myself to you", Lydia sniffed and left to finish her novel. Caesare had just arrived at the court of the calipha of Hegathe and things were promising to get interesting.

 oooo

Klimmek arrived two days later. It was a Greybeard who opened the doors to his insistent knocking and the poor man was stammering an apology whilst trying to explain why he was disturbing them, when Lydia and Wulf passed by the main hall and heard him.

Wulf sprang forward immediately and draped an arm across the flustered man's shoulders like they had been friends for years.

"Arngeir,", he introduced the other Nord jovially. "This is Klimmek, the man who has sacrificed his knees so you get your food."

"Klimmek, I need somebody to help me carry Lydia's stuff", he said and began to steer the dumbstruck man into the monastery with a friendly "Come on in!"

To give him credit, Klimmek shook himself out of his torpor and followed Wulf, his eyes roving over the stone halls of High Hrothgar with wonder and reverence. Together they loaded their baggage atop the mules and were ready to set off once more, Klimmek preferring to immediately begin the descent rather than spend a day resting in High Hrothgar. Lydia could not blame him with the way Arngeir had been glowering at her Thane as they said their farewells.

Wulf seemed happy to leave this place and he considerately hooked his arm into Lydia's like they were a couple. She was appreciating the support until he opened his mouth to joke about it.

“Don't slip. You won't stop rolling until you reach the bottom.”

 oooo

Thankfully, they made it down to Ivarstead without any accidents. They had been going slowly and taking many breaks in between but after the climb Lydia was so tired she had to lie down. Wulf brought her dinner and thanked Klimmek and they spent the evening playing a guessing game of 'who am I?', to pass the time, although the choices were narrowed down pretty quickly. The winner could ask the loser three questions the other had to answer truthfully.

“When the Empire surrendered to the Altmeri Dominion they shamed us all!" Lydia grumbled and coughed from trying to imitate a deep voice.

"Vignar", Wulf said without pausing. They both had forgotten that the man was dead.

"I'm not a man, I'm a weapon in human form. Just unsheathe me, and point me at the enemy."

Wha…? "That sounds like Hrongar", Lydia decided after a while.

"Drunk Hrongar", Wulf corrected.

"I still get the point", his housecarl said and tried to think of somebody they had not covered already. "There isn't a single good sweetroll in this skeeverhole of a city", she complained, knowing that her choice was not the best.

"Dagny."

"Yeah", Lydia admitted. "I can't stand that child. She treats everybody like servants and the servants worse than others do their dogs." She had seen enough during her guard duties to tell some very interesting stories, but she did not do so for the love of her Jarl.

"Just what is wrong with Balgruuf's brats?" Wulf shook his head and decided. "This is too easy." His choice made Lydia's brows climb into her hairline. "Yes! Harder! I am a bad boy, I must be punished!"

The housecarl snorted with a mixture of shock and amusement. “You just made this up!", the she accused her Thane.

“Not at all.”

Lydia scrunched her eyes shut and cast a pleading glance at the other Nord. “Please tell me it's not Jarl Balgruuf.” The Jarl was one of the few people still missing.

“It’s not Jarl Balgruuf”, Wulf assured her.

"Is it somebody I know?"

"Yes."

"Alright." She said and asked "Proventus?" When he shook his head she cursed and tried again "Farengar!"

"Yes." 

They dissolved into fits of laughter and Lydia knew she would not be able to look the wizard in the eye for a while. "You did make that up", she said, waggling her finger in Wulf's face which made him laugh all the harder.

"I didn't! Balgruuf wanted to talk about High Hrothgar and one of his guards pointed me to the porch. There were strange sounds coming from the study. So, I stopped to listen. You know, make sure everything was alright", he added hastily.

"Whom was he with?"

"The doors were closed. Maybe with Balgruuf's housecarl", Wulf mused. "I haven't seen her around."

"Oh, gods." She still wasn't sure he was serious, but it did not matter. "I won", Lydia declared.

Wulf looked about as happy as a cat doused with water. He just nodded along when Lydia reminded him that she had three questions and unenthusiastically lifted his right hand when she insisted and repeated "No lies."

"What happened with you and Vilkas?", the housecarl asked.

Wulf had apparently anticipated something along the line. "You know what my problem with Vilkas is?", he enquired heatedly. "That he has his head stuck so far up his arse he believes himself better than anybody around him. I got invited into Jorrvaskr by Aela and Kodlak agreed to have me tested and he scrunched up his nose like I was some piece of trash washed up at the door."

"Heh", Lydia snorted. "That's nothing against my first meeting with him, right after I was appointed your housecarl. You know what he said? ' _I'm not interested in your offer, we're not donating anything and if you're looking for work you'd better try at Dragonsreach._ ' Like I was a beggar! Not to mention that he did not let me in to see you when you were injured." Supposedly he had _forgotten_. "Sorry for interrupting", Lydia said. "So, what's next?"

"When I got my sword from Eorlund. Apparently I'm not good enough to wield Skyforge Steel. Never mind that it was Eorlund's decision to forge it and that I paid him enough to last him for months. And I gave him twice as much for my mail because his work is unique and it's what keeps my guts where they belong, but does he get any recognition for it? How can he be poor with his wife reduced to selling trinkets when he works for the mighty Companions?", Wulf enquired and didn't wait for his friend to answer. "Because they take it for granted, that's why. If I was him I'd tell them to fuck off for all the gratitude he gets."

"Sounds like a grudge." Lydia almost regretted getting her Thane started. Almost.

Wulf grunted. "I haven't begun yet. Last Midsummer Aela and I decided to hand out gifts to everybody and I had to put up with Vilkas skulking in the shadows and muttering and accusing me of some sinister plan to destroy Jorrvaskr and the rest of Whiterun. I saved him when I knocked a dragon out of the sky and I could listen to him complaining about how dishonourably I had behaved in using magic to do it. And when our job got botched he nagged the whole way home. I'm sorry, but mistakes happen and I didn't need him to gloat and rub it in for a week straight." Wulf might have contributed to the mission going wrong, but it had been an honest-to-the-gods accident and then Vilkas, who had stood six feet away and exactly knew what had transpired had to turn up his arrogant nose. It had stung, because back then Wulf still tried to prove himself and his acceptance into the Companions had in no way been decided.

"I tried to get Farkas out of that damned cairn", he continued, now truly getting worked up, "And I get blamed for him being captured in first place – several times – and when I offer to help in his rescue I get a dressing down with some thought put towards killing me. Of course the Companions have their secrets, but _I'm_ not to be trusted because they know nothing of my past! Well, it's none of their fucking business! Every gods-damned mercenary knows not to pry into a man's past." It was an unwritten code. There were ghosts and ugliness no matter whose past you looked into and it was something that just wasn't done.

Lydia stared in mute fascination as her Thane went on.

"Kodlak- they're so sad to see him go, you should have heard some of the things they said in the Circle meeting afterwards. Because Aela and Skjor have not only been turning people behind his back, but also defied direct orders not to attack the Silver Hand. What did they do? Yes, and now that that great, wise old man is dead they suddenly remember how much they loved and respected him."

Wulf was gearing himself up for the final punch now, Lydia could tell.

"Sure, but it's all fine and forgiven until you have consensual sex with a grownup man, because that's apparently when you overstep a line. And then, after being a suspicious, rude, condescending jerk Vilkas suddenly decides he has feelings. I should have punched him in the face when _he_ first kissed me. Because, hey, that's not offensive in Jorrvaskr."

"And you did not want to date him, because...", Lydia prompted and felt guilty for adding kindling to the flame.

"The self-entitled, pompous ass said that I owed it to him", Wulf snarled. "And his brother probably too, because that's the only excuse he has and it's getting old."

"And you had to say so." It was not a question, though Wulf answered it nonetheless.

"Yep. Though not until after he began to accuse me of leading him on."

He did not even mention that the last thing Farkas needs is being coddled and having a huge pity banner waved at him whilst constantly being reminded of what has happened. Lydia knew that better than anyone. It spoke volumes that the big warrior had bonded with her whilst avoiding his sibling.

"But you told Farkas he is a good man." Divines, Lydia was glad that the larger twin wasn't half as complicated as her Thane or the Harbinger, trauma and all.

The last of Wulf's anger evaporated and he deflated visibly. "He is, in his own screwed-up way. He cares about his brother and he lives for the Companions. But I am tired of being his scapegoat for everything that's gone wrong, I'm not putting up with his double standards anymore and besides, I wouldn't do anybody a favour by pretending to have feelings that I don't."

And that was final. He and Vilkas didn't even like each other most of the time and only got along in those sporadic moments when they were too tired to fight.

"Did you ever have a real, normal relationship?"

Wulf glared at his friend because of both the question and the phrasing, but true to their agreement he gave an answer. "Yes, and I'm not doing it again."

"What happened?"

"He died", the warrior responded curtly.

“Oh." Lydia had not expected that. Much gentler she asked, "What was his name?”

“That's four”, Wulf replied and did not answer the question.

xxxx

 

While Wulf was glad to be away from High Hrothgar and to go home he was apprehensive about returning to Jorrvaskr. It wasn't just the mess with Vilkas, but the whole package of the Companions' problems that he undoubtedly would be thrown into head-first.

Unless somebody sorted him out there was Torvar to deal with. Wulf didn't mind training with Ria and Athis and he hoped that Farkas was better, but the crippled Nord might pose a problem. You couldn't trust a drunk.

Ranting about everything that had weighted on his chest for the past year to Lydia had helped immensely and when she did not launch into a lecture on how he could have better handled the situation, because Kyne's cunt, was he tired of people doing just that, Wulf gifted her with a bright smile.

When she bought him a tankard of root ale he agreed to rub her aching feet.

But there was something else, something Wulf had wanted to do ever since he came to Skyrim and now, for the first time there was nothing stopping him from going after it.

"What are you thinking about?", Lydia ripped her Thane out of his thoughts.

"That this is probably the closest to Dawnstar I'll get in a while", Wulf replied with a wry smile.

"What's in Dawnstar?"

"My father lived there before he left Skyrim. I was born in Dawnstar", he said. He did not remember any of it, but there were other things, like that castle their family was supposed to have had. Wulf believed little of it and his chances of finding anybody who actually remembered one man who lived there thirty years ago were slim, but it was worth giving it a try. Maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe he would even find some clue about his mother, whom Garmr had not mentioned more than once or twice and then only in offensive slurs.

"You want to go there", Lydia observed.

"Yes." There was no use in hiding it, but then learning about his family history was one of the reasons why Wulf had come to Skyrim in first place. "But I don't want to leave you alone."

Lydia rolled her eyes and smiled. Her Thane had put up with her and her moods for almost half a year now. He might be annoying at times and insufferable at others, yet he had kept her company and distracted the housecarl and just let her unburden her heart whenever she needed it. "You go on", she said. "I'll be fine. I'll hire a carriage or something."

"Are you sure?" Wulf had not expected for her to send him off so promptly. The surprise must have been written into his face because his housecarl chuckled. Wulf grinned and kissed her brow, feeling like he might burst with newfound vigour all of a sudden. "You'll need guards", the Nord stated, "I'll talk to Sigunnr, maybe she can spare some."

"I don't need guards", Lydia protested, but Wulf was already gone.

She did need them and she would need help and if he found nobody willing to he was returning to Whiterun with her. Dawnstar wasn't going to be swallowed by the sea just because it took him a while longer to get there.

As it turned out the captain of the guard was happy to aid a Thane in need and since Wulf had killed the vampires her soldiers had little to occupy them. Even that cursed moaning barrow had shut up of late. Wulfryk arranged for a carriage and two guards to accompany Lydia and thanked Sigunnr before returning to the inn.

Lydia's exasperated sighs when he told her she would return with company fell on deaf ears as Wulfryk apologized that he wouldn't catch up to her before she arrived in Whiterun.

Wulf left everything that could be spared with Lydia, storing it away upon the carriage. He would travel light and make haste. A timber raft was leaving for Windhelm. He would take that and then ride. It was a month until Dawnstar and probably a month and a half to return, which should give him enough time to be back by the time she gave birth and whatever would follow.

"Take care", Lydia said in farewell and they hugged awkwardly. She waved enthusiastically and Wulf boarded the raft before he could have second thoughts.

The first leg of the journey was spectacularly dull. Wulf learned everything he never wanted to know about Windhelm's troubles with their timber supply significantly crippled by the Imperials taking hold of Falkreath by bribing the Jarl's nephew into overthrowing his uncle. The raftsmen were all adamant supporters of the Stormcloaks. Wulfryk wisely kept his mouth shut for once and nodded every now and then when it was expected of him. He had paid a hefty sum for the transport for himself and his horse and watched the black nervously shuffle as the wood beneath its hooves moved and shuddered. Wilhelm had taken good care of the animal and ensured it was exercised regularly, but even so the horse was far from happy about being tied down. Fortunately there was enough fodder to keep it occupied most of the time.

The same could not be said of its owner. Wulf watched the workers steer the raft along with long poles and the clouds in the sky and slept whenever he could, enjoying the milder temperatures in the valleys and the sun-warmed wood beneath him.

At times they had to disembark because the river was impassable due to rocks, rapids or waterfalls. At each such point there was livestock to pull the raft over land until it could be pushed into the water again and then the journey would resume.

The weather held mostly and without any unscheduled delays they arrived in the capital of Eastmarch in two week's time. Wulf enquired after Ralof with the guard stationed at the gates and was informed that the other Nord was away on a mission for the Jarl. It seemed his friend had made a name for himself in the meantime and had risen to the rank of officer in Ulfric's army. Wulfryk thanked the woman and returned to the stables where he had left his horse that was impatiently pawing at the earth, eager to get going after all the time it had spent standing still.

He decided not to enter the Windhelm and gave the military camps that sprawled around it a wide berth. The city was busy and swollen with recruits and Wulf remembered all too well the Imperial press gangs and though he had enough status as a Companion and Thane that no one would bother him, he was not going to risk finding himself fighting for one side in the war. He would return on his way back and hopefully have Ralof to vouch for him then and without his friend as a contact there was nothing in the city of any interest for him anyway.

The ride to Dawnstar that followed was hard and monotonous. Wulf was apprehensive about riding on his own at first, but there were no traders that could keep up with his daily mileage. Soon his worries were put to rest when he met the second Stormcloak contingent on the second day. It seemed the main road between the cities was often in use and well patrolled. Wulf greeted the soldiers and made way for them to pass and received no more than the one or other mildly curious glance.

He dismounted stiff and sore every evening, no longer used to riding this much after his stay in High Hrothgar, but he covered a goodly amount of ground. A massive mountain range loomed to his right for the better part of the journey and when it became smaller, dwindled into rounder, tree-covered foothills and finally into soft rolling hills he knew he was getting close to his destination. At last the terrain evened out and he was in the endless-looking, open valley of Dawnstar. Wulf was almost too tired to be excited about it.

The last two days passed as the ones before them had done, with the Nord withdrawn into himself, but alert to any signs of danger that never came. The salty, humid tang of the sea had hung in the air for a while now. When he took a bend in the road he could discern the shapes of buildings in the distance and through the thickening twilight. The warrior would have to find lodgings soon.

It was almost entirely dark when he arrived at long last, but his way was sufficiently lit by the moons and as luck would have it he steered his horse straight to the inn, past a few wooden cottages that were clustered together and their small, scraggy fields.

The tavern was of the same build, wood and thatch and a sign hung in front of it that the Nord could barely make out to be some mountain.

'Windpeak Inn', Wulf read and tied his horse to one of the rings bolted into the building's side.

What little he had seen of the town so far was different from how he had imagined it. From his father's tales Wulf had always thought Dawnstar would be...grander.

He pushed open the door and entered and the warmth of the room and the smells of cooking wrapped themselves around the warrior like a blanket. He felt himself relaxing already and for the first time in days he found the energy to smile as he walked up to the bar.

The innkeeper seemed a bit absent-minded, but he was friendly enough whenever he remembered he actually had guests and was all too happy to rent an entire room to Wulf.

"Better you than that skeever-humping son of a walrus Stig and his damned Blood Horkers", the dishevelled Nord muttered under his breath, probably assuming that his guest could not hear.

Wulf could and did and did not say so, wondering what he was getting himself into this time. All doubts were forgotten though when he entered the comfortable room. He had a big bed all to himself, a table covered by an embroidered cloth, plush seats and shelves for his belongings. Wulfryk thanked the innkeeper, paid in advance for the lodgings and food and together they went outside, Wulf to get his saddlebags and the other man to stable his horse.

Back in his room, Wulf did not find the energy to unpack his stuff; he just draped it over the armchair's armrests and dug out a fresh set of clothes. An old woman brought him a small tub, a bucket of cold and a pitcher full of hot water, as well as soap and a towel. The warrior scrubbed himself clean and immediately changed into a garb that wasn't stained by days of travelling on horseback. He half-heartedly dunked his dirty clothes in the soapy water, wrung them out and hung them up to dry next to the fireplace.

And then Wulf sat down, suddenly aware of just how tired he was. He could have gone to sleep then and there but there was a hot meal waiting for him and after days of having had nobody to talk to he felt social. Rest could wait another hour.

The only other patrons in the common room were a Dunmer clad in a priest's robes and a young woman sitting by herself in the corner that Wulf soon found out was no guest after all, but worked here. She served him food and they talked for a while, and he found out that her name was Karita and that she was his host's daughter. For a tip she played her lute for him and though nobody who had ever seen a trained bard would mistake her for one, she was good enough to make for pleasant entertainment. She was flirtatious and flaunting her assets, ample breasts that were barely contained by her too tight top and, besides the news he carried from Whiterun, was more interested in his coin than his company.

Wulf learned that not many strangers passed through Dawnstar. The town lived off fishery and its trade with Solitude and Windhelm. It had been much wealthier in the days before Winterhold had crumbled into the sea and, unlike there, the ground was not frozen all year round so they could grow their own crops, though the harvests were meagre and the fields rocky. When Wulf finished eating the Dunmer priest was gone as well as the elderly servant and the innkeeper was sweeping the floor and preparing to close. Karita left to light a candle outside that might show a weary nightly traveller to the tavern and Wulf withdrew for the night.

He woke shortly before noon after a long, but troubled sleep and ventured outside, the tendrils of some unsettling dream evaporating in the bright sunshine that greeted him. The warrior was briefly dazzled and had to stop to let his watering eyes adjust. Now that he was here he was not sure where to begin. Wulf passed the time until it would be acceptable to order lunch strolling through town. He could see no castle, just a dark tower jutting against the sky to the northeast of the village and he did not go near; having a bad feeling about the place.

The Nord took in the single-story houses, the smoke from the smelters and the grimy and grim-faced mineworkers that passed him by without a greeting. From there his feet took him to the docks, where a good five dozen ships were anchored, their masts bobbing up and down. Wulf made out everything from tiny fishing boats to round-bellied trading cogs, sleek longboats with their railings lined with painted shields to a few galleys that terribly busy looking sailors were striding across with their chests puffed out whilst others good-naturedly called out amongst themselves. Wulf marvelled at how busy the tiny port was as he wove his way through the masses. A few more vessels were out on the sea while others were being taken care of in the wharf and the beach was lined with fishing nets.

The smell of fish and salt hung in the air, coupled with tar and wet wood. Wulfryk had never seen the allures of a life at sea, and in this climate it escaped him completely. The tour done, the Nord watched another incoming ship drop its sails and turned to return to the inn. He would have to ask the owner a few questions to get a start, but...after his rumbling stomach had been filled.

 oooo

Wulf had just finished a deliciously spicy dish with stewed horker meat and complimented his host on the cooking, something that lit up the man's careworn face with a brief smile, when the doors of the inn opened and banged against the wall, and in strode four men in sailors' clothes like they owned the place.

"Hey! Useless!", the first of them hollered at the innkeeper. He had a weathered, angular face with a chin that appeared too long, a fact that was only accentuated by him being clean-shaven. "What's your name again?"

"Thoring", the other Nord replied quietly, standing still like he was frozen to the ground.

"Of course." The rude arrival replied and spread his arms in a gesture that should probably have looked amiable. "Your finest room, Thoring."

"I am sorry." The other Nord straightened somewhat. "I have just rented it."

There was a disbelieving mutter and one of the sailor's friends actually stopped giving Karita a hard time. The resident Dunmer pulled her away and did not even flinch at the insult of 'ashface' though his red eyes narrowed dangerously.

The bad-mannered lout hooked his thumbs into his belt. "To whom?", he asked and looked around.

Wulf pulled his knife where the action was hidden by the table and reversed his grip while his other hand grasped the leather strap of his shield. He had seen the scimitar the other man carried and the situation looked like it might become nasty soon.

"That would be me", Wulf said and got up.

People relied on big fucking swords too much in his opinion and those were more of a hindrance than an advantage in quarters as close as this. Wulfryk could have the thug's throat open before the other had a chance to pull his weapon halfway. The remaining three might be more of a problem though.

All eyes turned towards Wulf who smiled coldly. "Is there a problem?"

A well tanned Nord with the sides of his head shaved and a moustache gasped. He was built like a bull and the one who had bothered Karita earlier, and now he stared at Wulf like he had seen a ghost.

"I'll be damned", the man whispered and stumbled a step back, knocking into who Wulfryk decided had to be his captain. "You! You, stay away!", he cried, pointing at the surprised warrior.

Wulf was not the only one to stare. "Alding, what is it?", another sailor asked, whilst the third laughed out loud.

"Afraid of some...bedraggled merc? Don't look like much to me. That armour's seen better times."

It was a good thing none of them knew Wulf carried Skyforge Steel beneath the leather, the worth of which probably surpassed the inn and the possessions of everyone within it combined.

"You blind, fool?", the man named Alding asked, voice rising. "That's not some traveller or common sellsword. That's Blacktyde's bastard!"

In the silence that followed Wulf heard the captain's sharp indrawn breath. The innkeeper had long ago backed away to give them room and was all but forgotten as Wulfryk saw the blood drain from several faces around him.

"I don't know what you're talking about", he stated coldly, but was ignored.

"Dibella's tits! Ya're right." Another Nord with a long blonde ponytail rubbed a nasty scar across the left side of his face.

"Captain?", the third enquired, no longer laughing.

Wulf had no idea what this was about, but he decided it was time to take the initiative. "Back off, or you'll wish I was my father." _Who would be lying in a puddle of ale and vomit were he here._ He tried not to think about that.

The sailors recoiled and Wulfryk realized he could smell their fear rolling off them along with the pungent whiff of unwashed bodies.

"I'm also a Thane of Whiterun and I don't have to put up with you bunch of flea-bitten mongrels or your measly gild!" There, let them chew on that. Wulf looked around; made sure they got the message and growled, "Now, unless any of you wish to bite steel, sod off!"

To his surprise they did. Four men against one, and they filed out of the tavern one after the other, heads down and casting afraid looks at him like they were afraid he might come after them.

Wulf grinned and chuckled, amazed that the ruse had worked. Whoever Blacktyde was he apparently owed him for sharing his looks. He put away his knife and took his seat again.

"Thank you." Thoring sidled closer, weary but happy to see the troublemakers gone.

"I'm afraid I may have chased off your _guests_ ", Wulf said with an emphasis on the last word.

"They would have eaten and drunk and not paid for a single tankard", the innkeeper replied and turned sharply at the sound of footsteps behind him, but it was only the priest and his daughter. "Karita, are you alright?"

The girl nodded and her father disposed a full tankard in front of the Dunmer. "Thank you Erandur. It's on the house."

The Dunmer nodded and waved away any thanks, but kept the mug and took a sip of the foaming liquid.

Wulf found Karita striding towards him, a look of resolve on her pretty face. "My lord, are you really a Thane?", she asked.

"Yes."

"Then you should go to the Jarl", she said boldly to the shock of her father.

"Karita-"

"Listen, father!", she did not let herself be interrupted and turned back to Wulf and explained "This isn't the first time Stig and his gang have given us trouble. The Jarl doesn't care about us. But if Skald heard they harassed a Thane he might finally do something about those damned pirates! Is it not bad enough we can barely get a night's sleep, now we have their likes threatening our guests and stealing from us!"

"Please, sir." She looked so hopeful, as did her father.

It was his right as Thane to bring incidents such as this one to the Jarl's attention. Wulf guessed here was his chance to use his title for some good and help these people. That it might also get those thugs off his back was a welcome bonus.

"I guess I can talk to the Jarl", he agreed.

 oooo

The Jarl's White Hall was easily recognizable due to it being the largest building in Dawnstar and one of the few that had two storeys. Heavy banners with the hold's emblem, a four pointed star, hung next to the entrance. Wulf introduced himself to the guards on duty as Thane and was immediately granted an audience with Jarl Skald, whom he had heard some also refer to as 'Skald the Elder'.

The Jarl was an old man decked out in the best finery with a circlet adorning his bald bead that did nothing to improve his looks or set him apart from a shrivelled potato. He was sitting in his throne and his rheumy eyes fixed on the man striding towards him.

"Your kind are not welcome here", he rasped, throat bobbing.

"My kind", Wulf repeated and kept the aged housecarl in his vision. This was already not going as planned. "And what's that?"

"Pirates", the Jarl croaked in an old man's high voice. "Murderers."

"That's rich coming from the man who allows pirates bully his citizens."

"Privateers", Skald growled, but backed off. "Paid to keep the Imperial fleets out of our waters."

"You have me mistaken for somebody else", Wulf said wondering if this talk was going somewhere.

The Jarl snorted and his cough turned into a wet hacking that made Wulf wince with disgust. "You are wearing a familiar face, stranger", the old man said, wiping spittle from his lips.

"I'm a Thane of Whiterun", Wulfryk replied straightening, "Not a seaman."

"Are you?" The Jarl righted himself and waved his visitor closer, leaning forward for a better look. He grunted and mentioned for his housecarl to stand back.

"Whiterun", he repeated, and Wulf did not like his tone one bit. "You a friend of Balgruuf's?"

It was a tricky question. Skald appeared none too fond of the Jarl of Whiterun, but if Wulf said yes, he had the illusory protection of the Jarl.

"I am a Thane of his hold", he chose the neutral answer. Let the other man flounder. "Whiterun is my home and the Jarl-"

"Has he finally declared for a side?", Skald interrupted, ignoring the later parts. His pale eyes were burning with a fevered intensity.

Wulf chose Balgruuf's own words to answer, already weary with the exchange. "Jarl Balgruuf stands, as always, with Whiterun."

"Blacktyde."

"That's not my name", Wulf replied with a calm that he did not feel and watched the old man's spindly hands clutch the armrests of his throne the longer they stared at one another. It couldn't be; twice in a day...

"Don't bother lying", Skald whispered. "I knew your father. That fancy paint of yours? I know that pattern too."

Wulf suddenly found his heart racing in his chest."You knew my father?", he asked, mouth dry. He had hoped to find answers, but it seemed the truth had instead decided to come to him.

The Jarl nodded, never taking his unblinking eyes off the Nord before him. "The Butcher of the Ghost Sea, the most notorious brigand Dawnstar and the Pale have ever seen? Aye, I remember him." Skald spit a glob of yellowish phlegm to the floor, not too far away from Wulf's boots.

"He alone could make the Blood Horkers look like a bunch of sissies. Never have I met, seen or heard of a more vile or ruthless man." Angry splotches had begun to discolour the old man's face.

"What's with the name?", Wulf enquired, trying to get as much information as he could while the Jarl felt like talking.

Skald leaned back again and appeared pleased with the question, enjoying the story he was about to tell. "When the night was dark and starless and the tide high his longboats would make shore", he began. "Sometimes, he even roved them upstream, and then he and his men crept up to the villages and towns. For ten years Blacktyde raided the coast, pillaging, burning and butchering the people that stood in his way and those he had no use for. A few he always took with him. Those were never seen again. And then his ships would sail west, always west. Probably sold them to Solitude and them damn Imperial sons of bitches. What else is there, in the west, eh?"

Wulf had no idea what else there was in the west. "I'm not my father." He managed no more than a whisper himself, feeling faint. It could not be. The angry drunk he remembered was no infamous pirate, and yet three people had thought they recognized him today.

"Of course", Skald crooned and the hairs at the nape of Wulf's neck rose, never a good sign.

"Will you tell your privateers to leave Thoring and his daughter in peace?", he asked, just wanting this to be over with and to get out of this place that smelled like dust and sour old man and shit.

"Yes, yes", the Jarl said softly and waved his hand and Wulf knew the audience was over, he would get no more of a commitment, but he was happy to finally be able to leave.

Leaving behind the hazy, smoke filled interior of the hall and drawing his first breath of fresh air, Wulf felt the knot of tension inside him unravel a bit. He still felt shaken, but no longer like the world around him was reeling. A walk was what he needed, and to feel the crisp autumn wind. Yet when he was far enough away Wulfryk thought he could see a figure sneak out of the Jarl's hall and creep through the streets.

He stopped to get a better look without being seen himself and witnessed Skald's servant talking to a Nord woman with light blonde hair and an armoured man at her side. If Wulf had had a bad feeling before, now his stomach was practically giving him cramps. It was time to return to his room, he thought. Something was off with Dawnstar and he wanted no part in it.

When Wulf cast a look back, over his shoulder he saw two people following him. It appeared he was not going to get away quite as easily. He stuck to busy places, the market and main road and made his way to the inn and behind the stables, where he leaned against the wall, out of sight.

Time to find out what _this_ was about.

The crunch of feet alerted him to his stalkers coming closer and when they, the woman and a man in a Legionnaire's armour rounded the corner, it was to find themselves at the tip of his drawn sword. Wulf had had enough of crazy people for the day, and after his meeting with the Jarl he felt jumpy and irritated.

The soldier froze with his hand on the hilt of his own sword, but the woman opened her empty palms. Her features were severe; she was older than he had initially thought her to be and gave him a hard stare before saying "I would not stay the night if I were you", indicating the inn with her head.

"And you are?"

"Brina", she introduced herself and her companion. "Brina Merilis. This is Horik, my...housecarl."

"I thought Dawnstar was Stormcloak territory", Wulf asked with a nod towards the man's armour. He wasn't quite sure yet what to make of the encounter.

"I have lived in Dawnstar ever since I retired from the Legion", Brina said, followed by, "I know what your father did. By now everybody knows who you are. The people are...angry."

Wulf could have punched her, Horik, or the wall out of frustration but did neither, gritting his teeth instead. "I've never been to Skyrim before", he managed to force out.

The ex-Legionnaire tilted her head somewhat, her expression softening. "No, you are too young, I see that. But you do have your father's face. It is enough to wake old memories and stir resentment."

"You want me to leave?" He had just arrived! And apparently he was not welcome here.

"A fair warning." Brina inclined her head. "Heed it or not." She motioned for her friend to follow and both withdrew, walking away like none of this had ever happened.

"Thank you", Wulf said to their retreating backs and received no reply.

 oooo

He was still curious, with the scraps he had found out today more so now than ever. But the last time Wulf had ignored his gut feeling he had almost died. He was not going to repeat the mistake today.

Wulfryk thanked the innkeeper for his hospitality and announced his early departure due to the earlier misunderstanding. Or, his late one, considering the sun had set already. Thoring nodded, just as his daughter pulled open the shutters.

"Father? Why are there so many people out?"

Wulf joined her at the window and cursed. He could see the line of torches, bright in the dusk.

"I'll ready your horse", Thoring said. "I will not have the blood of guests shed in my inn."

Thank the Divines he had not found the time to unpack. Wulf ran into his room and grabbed his saddlebags, his sword and shield and made to follow. Just then a mailed fist banged against the tavern's door.

"Thoring! Open up!", a deep voice shouted.

"Karita, don't-", the innkeeper whispered, too late.

"It's just the Jarl's men, father!", his daughter replied and pulled back the bolt.

Wulf stood rooted to the ground when Thoring grabbed his arm and pulled him through another door, just as the front one opened.

"Good evening, housecarl", they both heard Karita greet the man.

The innkeeper tugged on Wulf's sleeve and they were out through a back door and entered the stables, the warrior still straining his hears for the conversation he could hear over the rustle of straw and the sound of horses moving.

"There is a mob forming outside. You are not safe", the man who had to be Skald's housecarl warned the innkeeper's daughter.

Not aware of what was going on back in the house, Thoring saddled Wulf's horse and the warrior slung his packs over the animal's back even as the other man bridled it in what must have been record time. They were tightening the most important straps when Wulfryk heard Karita's reply.

"We were afraid."

"Do not worry, we will take care of it", the housecarl assured her warmly. Then he bellowed, "In the name of Skald the Elder, you are surrounded, Blacktyde! Surrender, traitor, and face the Jarl's judgment!"


	36. BTS

The carriage ride back to Whiterun was, for the most part, staggeringly boring. Lydia spent a great amount of time dozing or, whenever she could talk her escort into letting her take the reins, on the coachman's box. The soldiers accompanying her were all respectful and attentive. Either it was because she was a housecarl and her safe return their responsibility or Wulf had had words with them.

A week into the journey and she missed her Thane. They had grown close atop High Hrothgar, but Lydia had been happy when Wulf had voiced his desire to visit Dawnstar. It would give her some time alone that she very much needed. While it had been nice to have somebody to take care of her, or to just talk to whenever she wanted to, the housecarl needed to rely on herself once more.

She regretted that particular decision soon enough. It had just been impossible to be fret when you had an infuriating Thane cracking obliviously bad jokes. Lydia lay awake at night, worry gnawing at her. About the approaching birth, about her return to Jorrvaskr and confronting Farkas and about the future. She did not want to go down in Whiterun's history as the housecarl with the shortest, least heroic career.

She could not serve her Thane and raise a child and the more she thought about it the less she wanted to leave her son or daughter with a wet nurse. Apart from the fact that a part of the money would have to be provided by Wulf since her job as guard had not paid off much and most of her income she had spent on drink and a proper suit of armour, if she was going to be a mother, she was going to be a good one. But she could not do it on her own.

Wulf though more or less helpful and understanding was neither very patient nor caring and probably the worst person to leave a babe around. He might outright forget it existed - and that was a best-case scenario.

Farkas was sweet and loving, not something Lydia had expected from his rough appearance and reputation as a fearsome warrior. The man she had come to know better wasn't the sharpest sword around, however surprisingly sensitive and insightful, but deeply troubled after everything that had happened with the Silver Hand. They had rarely talked about it, striving for as normal a relationship as they could muster, at first as friends and then as something more. Having a pregnant lover return after half a year's absence was hardly normal. And they barely knew each other. Sure, there was attraction and Lydia would me more than happy to build something lasting with the Companion, but for all she knew he had already forgotten her and was heads over heels in love with Alfhild or Ysolda.

As if that wasn't enough, she was worried about the babe's health. Lydia had little experience with childbearing – whom was she kidding, she had absolutely none. The housecarl knew swords, not babies. But she wasn't just big. She was huge. Wulf had used to tease her about it and they had laughed, but when one of the guards accompanying her advised Lydia to see a midwife as soon as possible, because his wife had never been this big at this stage of her pregnancy, she had nearly panicked.

There was nothing she could do now, the warrior told herself, but the closer they came to Whiterun the more agitated she became. And then, after nearly three weeks, she saw it: Dragonsreach. From there it was only a couple of hours until their carriage clattered over the paved road and up to the city gates.

The guard on duty stopped them there; few people except for farmers and merchants making deliveries and the odd noble drove or rode into the city as custom and practicability dictated they leave their horses and vehicles outside.

The soldier's eyes went wide when he spotted her and Lydia heaved a heavy sigh. Here it came.

"Lydia! What happened to you!?"

"I ate the last idiot to ask stupid questions", the housecarl snapped at the man on duty, "And he's heavy on the stomach."

One of her escort chuckled into his fist and she allowed herself a rueful grin when the guards waved her through the gates without any further delay. She'd apologize to the poor guy later.

Lydia watched the city around her through the window and called out instructions to the soldier driving the carriage. They took the long way along the city walls where they wouldn't be hindered by any stairs. Somehow the housecarl expected to find Whiterun changed, but everything was as always, it seemed. She saw Mila, Carlotta's daughter in the distance and Idolaf and Jon arguing and Danica was sitting on a bench at the back of the temple, no doubt enjoying a short and rare break from her duties.

They passed the residences of Whiterun's most powerful and rich families and after a few more turns Lydia imagined she could hear Heimskr's never-ending sermon about Talos. That was one thing she had not missed.

The carriage came to a stop in front of a sight she had, on the other hand, missed very much. The barracks were still the same, low long rows of houses that leaned against the wall behind the Jarl's palace. She climbed out of the carriage stiff and with her joints creaking, accepting a helping hand from the only woman in her escort.

Then, as she looked around, it really sunk in that, Kyne's breath, she did not even know where she lived. Her old quarters had probably been given to somebody else by now. But Wulf had bought Breezehome, so that's where she could stay. Lydia only needed to get the keys from Proventus.

The climb up the stairs to Dragonsreach left the housecarl short on breath – had she really managed to ascend the Throat of the World a couple of months ago? Balgruuf was thankfully absent, as was his brother and Irileth, but she found the Imperial steward pouring over accounts in the back. He handed over the keys to her new home practically without looking up. Lydia thanked him, received a grunt in answer and left again.

The guards who had accompanied her from Ivarstead followed her to the house, one of them carrying the pack with her belongings. Lydia thanked all of them with last instructions about where they should leave the horse and carriage, gave their leader a pouch with coins and pointed them to the Bannered Mare with strict orders to have a good time and a couple of drinks on her.

The housecarl put her hands on her hips and stretched in hope of easing her back pain. The house didn't look like much to her and she remembered the hanging cobwebs when they had inspected it right after Balgruuf had given it to Wulf. _Breezehome_. It did sound draughty and it wasn't her home. It was her Thane's and she was honour-bound to stay with him and look after his possessions in his absence. Not that Wulf had many, and most were probably still in Jorrvaskr. So...an empty house it was.

Lydia was all the more glad to have her assumptions proven wrong when she unlocked the door and stepped inside. She had quite forgotten Wulf had commissioned its furnishing. There was a small layer of dust over everything and the furniture smelled new, of sawdust and the oils used to preserve the wood, but other than that it was...homely.

Or, it would be if it was a bit more lived in. The fireplace was cold, but Lydia found a staple of logs and immediately got to work. Moving around felt good after all the time she had spent cooped up in the carriage. The walls of the cottage were lined with shelves and decorations: a woven tapestry, a deer's skull, a weapon rack. Some of the shelves were filled with edibles, others had plates and cups lined up upon them, but most were empty. Behind the fireplace there were two massive, comfortable looking seats and a table. The pantry at the back of the house was well-stocked and Lydia made good use of what she found.

While the food was sizzling in pans, spreading a delicious aroma throughout the house, she explored the upper story. There was not much to be found, a large bedroom and a smaller one and – wait! She knew that trunk! Just as she lifted the lid to confirm that yes, those were her belongings, somebody knocked at the door.

"I'm coming", Lydia hollered and got up again.

Before she made it all the way down the rather steep stairs, her visitor let herself in.

"Hello, sweetheart", Signy called out. "I brought cherry pie!" The redhead spotted her friend and waved like mad. "Derek says you got knocked up!"

Lydia hugged the other woman, took the plate and decided not to comment that Derek would be better off keeping his mouth shut. She had not been back an hour and all the guard probably already knew. Damn gossips!

"How did you know I'd be back?", she asked and lifted the cloth.

"I didn't", Signy replied and made herself comfortable in one of the chairs closest to the fire, stirring the vegetables so they would not burn. Just like Lydia had never been gone. "I just happened to have pie. Well, half of one", she added when she noticed the housecarl give her a look she knew all too well. "Dinner is ready."

The guard heaped a healthy amount of food on her friend's plate and helped herself to the rest, talking the entire time. After Proventus had declared the house inhabitable the guards had moved all her stuff and apparently held a housewarming party – without its owners. Lydia laughed until she choked on the food and then some more. She relayed how she and her Thane slew a pair of vampires that had been plaguing Ivarstead and her unfortunate first encounter with Arngeir, as well as the exciting snippets from their stay at Hogh Hrothgar.

In truth, Wulf had burned the bloodsuckers to ashes after managing to repulse them with some terribly inappropriate innuendo but that was a minor detail. Two vampires were dead and that was all that counted. Her other tales needed no embellishment.

Signy listened with longing on her face. How often they had talked about going on adventures together? But the guardswoman did not begrudge her friend the experience and asked questions as quickly as Lydia could answer them.

"What are the Greybeards like? Everybody is envious of you, you know. Eren threw a fit. She's been assigned to border patrol." The redhead shrugged. "Haven't seen her since."

Lydia knew it was a bad habit to gloat at a rival's downfall, but she could not hold the gleeful grin in. Eren had been making her life hell during her first months with the guard, when she had not had made any friends yet. Hearing the other woman was green with envy was an oddly satisfying feeling.

After a while, their talk inevitably turned to the child Lydia was bearing.

"Ooh. I'm going to be an aunt!", Signy crooned. "That's so exciting!" She leaned forward in her chair, voice dropping to a sly whisper. "So, who's the father? A certain dragonslaying adventurer?"

Lydia endured the waterfall of words with a patient smile, but at that last remark she just shook her head. Signy could not be serious. "It's Farkas", she replied.

"Does he know?"

"No."

The baby had been kicking her more than usual lately and she could not get that one soldier's words out of her mind. What if there was something wrong with her? What if-? She forced herself to stop.

"Look", Lydia began, "Before I tell him I want to see the midwife. To make sure...everything is fine", she forced herself to say. She put away her empty plate and clasped her hands across her belly protectively.

"Sure." Signy polished off the remains of their dinner, soaking a piece of bread in the oil. She then dusted her hands of crumbs and helped Lydia to her feet. "Let's go see her."

 oooo

The midwife and her assistant, it turned out, were not at home. They had gone to a distant farm to help with a particularly difficult birth, the woman's sister informed the two warriors when they knocked to the cottage's door. "You could try at the temple", she suggested with an apologetic expression.

"Wasn't there a second one?", Lydia enquired of her friend. Danica was a great healer, but her field of expertise was to treat wounds and illnesses and not delivering babes.

"Yes, but she left for Solitude", Signy replied.

There was nothing else they could do but visit the temple. The resident priest of Mara welcomed them to the Temple of Kynareth and agreed to get Danica. Lydia did not recognize him, but Signy explained that he had taken over the duties of the grandfatherly old priest that the housecarl remembered always had dealt out sweets to the children.

While each city had a temple primarily dedicated to one deity, there were booths where everyone could worship one of the nine. Or, eight, because Heimskr was tending to the shrine of Talos. In each and every city there was a Hall for Arkay and priests to look after the dead, as well as a chapel dedicated to Mara. In Whiterun, Kynareth's temple had a small side wing and served for both, and weddings were usually held outside, beneath the Gildergreen.

To Lydia's surprise, the head priestess was not the one to treat her. After listening to the housecarl's concerns she nodded and went to fetch Jenssen, who, according to her, 'had more experience in the field'.

When Signy asked how that came to be, the acolyte from Rorikstead told them that his mother had been once the town's only physician and he had assisted her as a boy, before he had come to Whiterun. The redhead shrugged, and Lydia immediately felt better to place her child's health in the priest's capable hands. And, if there really was something wrong, a healer wasn't a bad choice anyway.

Jenssen pressed his fingers into her abdomen in various places and Lydia answered a couple of uncomfortable questions. Had she bled? Was there any pain? Finally the priest's hands lit up briefly with a golden glow. Lydia shifted nervously, not able to guess the outcome of the examination from the man's stoic demeanour.

The acolyte righted himself again, clasping his hands in front of him. "As far as I can tell, they are hale and growing up strong."

The relief lasted for only about a heartbeat. "They?", Lydia asked feebly and Signy clutched her hand in delight.

The healer nodded with a small smile. "Of course. You are carrying twins."

"Oh, gods. I need to sit down." Lydia felt herself being dragged over to the nearest bench and collapsed on it, only mumbling a weak 'thank you' when Jenssen brought her a cup of cold water.

Twins. She should be happy, focus on the 'healthy and strong' part, but instead that one work kept playing over and over in her head.

 _Twins_.

 oooo

Later that day, Lydia was warming her feet by the glowing embers; all that remained of the fire from midday. Signy had a duty she needed to return to and the housecarl was trying to come to terms with the news. While she was glad there was nothing wrong with her, she now worried about what awaited her. Taking care of two children would be even more taxing than one – as if that prospect was not enough of a challenge. For all that she tried to come up with a plan, her thoughts kept swerving back to the father.

She had to tell him. Farkas deserved to know and it was cruel to keep away from him without reason. They were friends, at least, and she didn't want him to think she did not want to see him again. Besides, the longer she waited the more likely it was one of the Companions was going to visit her...and if she confronted them she wanted to do it on her terms. Like she wasn't scared out of her mind.

Lydia collected the gifts into a bag. She had Athis' cloak and the design's for Ria's shield, and a few other knickknacks. After a brief search she found Vilkas' book and clutched it to her chest.

Midyear had passed, but there had been no way to know how long Wulf's training was going to take. At least with the gifts she would have a reason for stopping by. Besides, it was a nice gesture.

No backing out now, housecarl.

Lydia pulled the door closed behind her firmly and set a brisk stride, but checked it quickly. She did not want to rush or appear desperate. She was just going to catch up with friends, tell the one or other story and...confront the man of her children. Only then did she realize that nobody was watching her. She huffed in annoyance at her silly behaviour and drew in a sharp breath when the baby gave her a kick. One of them, anyway. Gods, six months old and they already knew how to pack a punch. They were going to take after their father, of that she was sure already.  

Jorrvaskr lay in front of her, for once not the welcoming wooden structure that was like a second home to her. She swallowed, ignoring the churning sensation in her stomach and took the stairs one at a time, trying to get all the imaginary arguments that were plaguing her out of her head.

Lydia briefly rapped her knuckles against the door's wood and let herself in without waiting for an answer. The mead hall was dark – and quiet. She tensed, but then she saw that a fire had burned low in the hearth and a man stood up from an oversized cushioned seat that creaked in protest. She felt hear heart beat faster.

"Who-"

"Hello, Vilkas", Lydia greeted the Companion with forced cheer and set down her bag. It wasn't heavy, but she knew she should not be carrying any more than absolutely necessary. "Nobody home?"

"Farkas is, the others have gone out-"

She saw his eyes wander to her stomach and whatever warmth there may have been in his eyes, died. He stopped a couple of feet away from her and there was no mistaking his scowl, not even in the bad light.

Well, this was uncomfortable. "I actually really need to speak with your brother", the housecarl said, sensing the warrior's displeasure radiating from him.

"I don't think so", he replied coldly, crossing his arms as if he intended to put himself between her and his brother. Great. He was still the dramatic, judgmental jerk she remembered. It was good to know some things, apparently, never changed.

But Vilkas wasn't done, not by a long stretch. "You dare come back like that!?", he asked, with flared nostrils and his voice rising almost to a shout. "Did you know that not a day has passed Farkas wasn't talking about you? I thought you felt something for him as well! Instead you run off with that...and come back...!" He did not find the right swearword to say with whom, not that he needed to.

Lydia thought she had misheard at first. And when the insinuation sank in, she felt the burn of anger. Curiously detached from her actions she watched herself cross the distance between herself and the tall Companion, and her hands took action without her having any control over them. One thing she registered with great satisfaction was the half-step back he took and the look of alarm the warrior shot her right before she was upon him.

Vilkas had a brief glimpse at the title of the book in Lydia's her hands: 'Songs of the-', and then the tome hit him square in the face. Vilkas' head was whipped around and he felt his teeth cut into his cheek. Worse by far was the crack in his jaw, the sting of the slap and a feeling of wrongness catching up to his stunned brain a moment later.

He stared at the housecarl, who was still clutching the book with her arms stretched out, ready to deal him another blow, in mute shock, one hand going to his limply hanging jaw. He tried to close it, and just like from stuck hinges there was a gritting sound and pain and he realized that she had dislocated his jaw.

Lydia burst out in a hysteric bout of laughter at the Companion's expression of shock and bewilderment, and this entire fucked up situation they found themselves in. Oh, this was so not going how she had imagined it.

She stopped when she saw Vilkas' head snap up and heard the creak of the floorboards. Farkas was standing at the top of the stairs staring at the pair, and he looked like Lydia felt: like he wanted to sink through the floor and into his room.

"I thought I heard shouting", he said quietly.

When the dark warrior saw her, his eyes, so similar and yet so unlike those of his brother, widened, whether because of Lydia's pregnancy, or because of the state his brother was in, or maybe from what he had overheard. Perhaps it was all of the above. Lydia didn't care.

She had not seen her strong, gentle man in half a year and the funny, lightly tingling sensation in her stomach flared up again. She wanted to do something stupid and reckless, like tackle him and kiss him the way reunited lovers did in sappy romances. She wanted him to hold her, wanted to feel his arms around her and to listen to his rasping laugh as they sat upon his bed, legs stretched out comfortably in front of them, whilst they shared a bottle of mead. She wanted everything to be normal again.

But it wasn't. It wasn't and it was his doing.

"You!" Farkas stood his ground when she advanced and poked her finger into his chest. Hard. "You did this to me!"

The Companion looked like he had been the one to have been hit by that book. "I'll be a father?", he asked, dazed.

This was not the reply Lydia had expected. It was the one she had not dared to hope for. "Do...do you want to?", she asked, breathless.

Farkas stirred, the tiniest of nods and Lydia clasped her hands in front of her mouth to hold back the half-sob, half-something-joyous of relief. Her eyes lost focus, the world around her becoming blurry and still she saw Farkas reach out to her, worry and concern on his face.

He did not understand why she was crying all of a sudden, not when she had been angry with him a moment before, but he wanted to comfort her even so.

A whining noise made them both spin around. Vilkas was standing in the middle of the room, mouth slack like that of a fish and pointed animatedly at his face, making another one of those whining sounds.

With a sigh Farkas turned his twin's head left and right before he stepped back. Then, his fist collided with his brother's jaw. Vilkas went down like a sack of potatoes.

Lydia used the distraction to wipe at her eyes and when Farkas turned back to her she smiled up at the Companion. "Hey."

"Hey", he whispered back, his thumbs trailing feather light over her cheeks, fingers combing her hair behind her ears. But no more than that. He was unsure if she would welcome the affection after all this time. Lydia stepped closer and pulled the giant oaf into a kiss that left them both breathless and smiling.

On the floor, Vilkas groaned.

"Let's go down", Farkas suggested. "Before he wakes up."

He had heard Vilkas' accusation and packed more force into that blow that had been necessary. Neither of them wanted to deal with the other man right now. He'd come around, and if not, Tilma could drape a quilt over him.

Farkas led them to his room, not letting go of Lydia's hand and she briefly wondered if he was afraid she was going to run away again. The thought made a fleeting smile pass over her face. She wasn't going to leave, not for all the ancient legends Nirn had to offer. Farkas fetched two bottles of mead from under the counter and she refused the one he gave her. "I shouldn't drink."

"Oh." He had clearly not considered that. "Right."

They sat together on the bed, like they had so many times, but this time something was different. Lydia was all too conscious of the space where their shoulders did not touch. It seemed wrong, this awareness. Farkas must have felt it as well.

"I'm sorry, for Vilkas", he began. "He's been...", the Companion's voice faded into silence; he did not finish. They both knew the excuses by now. "Is Wulf back with you?", he asked, anxious.

"No", Lydia assured him. "He's gone to Dawnstar."

"He left you?" There was a hint of outrage in his question that warmed the housecarl's heart. He cared.

"Only because I told him to. Don't worry; I've had several guards to escort me back", she appeased him and he grunted in answer. "Look, I really don't want to talk about Wulf right now", Lydia sighed. They had to address what had really brought them here, the sooner the better.

The Companion nodded, took her hand into his and with his honest, sincerity that Lydia had come to love about him, he said, "I know we haven't seen each other in a while and I'm not sure if I have a right to ask this, but I want to be there for you. For the child. What I'm trying to ask is; Lydia, do you want to be my family?" He flushed and winced at the wording, but did not back down.

"Are you asking me if I'd marry you?" She was not sure if she was ready for that, if she even wanted it.

"I don't know. I should have an amulet for this, right?" He was beginning to look panicked now.

"Let's try 'together' for now", Lydia suggested. "We don't need an amulet. Maybe tomorrow I'll remember how terribly you snore and rethink my decision."

"You snore worse than I do", Farkas shot back and they laughed.

It wasn't much, no great confessions of love, but the camaraderie they had been missing was restored. They needed some time to mull things through; especially Farkas, who had to come to terms with suddenly becoming a father. They'd take small steps and go from there, but Lydia was sure all would work out now that the Companion wasn't making a run for another city.

She loved how uncomplicated he made such difficult things, with his open-heartedness and his dedication to stick to a decision once he had made it. She might love him, she realized. Farkas wouldn't go back on his word, of that she was sure, no flowery promises needed. The good thing was that with the big warrior ofttimes words were unnecessary.

When he pressed his palm to her stomach, Lydia said, "Sometimes you can feel them move."

"Really?" There was wonder upon his face, and love and when he looked back up at her, realization. "Wait. There's...more than one?"

"Farkas. I'm carrying twins", Lydia burst out.

"Twins?", Farkas repeated, like he had never heard the word before.

"Yes."

Oh Gods. He didn't want them.

And then the warrior's face broke into a huge smile. "They'll be just like me and Vilkas", he declared dreamily.

"I hope they'll be more like you", Lydia answered and they smiled at each other. And then, they had gone from sitting to lying down and were kissing leisurely, hands trailing light touches over each other's bodies.

Farkas was eager, but unhurried and focused on kissing every inch of her skin. Lydia giggled when his breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of her navel.

Their lovemaking was urgent, yet gentle and soft chuckles turned to moans after a brief, awkward struggle filled with breathless laughter when they tried to find a suitable position. Lydia drifted off with her back against Farkas' broad chest, the warrior trailing circles over her bare shoulder, his hand wandering from time to time to briefly touch her stomach as if to assure himself this was all real.

 oooo

In the morning they were slow to wake, kissed languidly and dozed off again. Farkas' arm rested heavily over Lydia's chest and he pulled her close, their legs entwined and she could not have gotten away if she wanted to. And it felt absolutely wonderful.

She tickled him awake an indeterminable amount of time later and his retaliation led to another roll in the sheets, slow and thorough this time.

Eventually they left the sanctuary of Farkas' bed to take a bath and head upstairs. No breakfast awaited them, it was far too late. But he other Companions were there and Lydia was greeted with hugs and cheers when Farkas announced with a sheepish smile that they were going to be parents.

She dealt out gifts that had been noticed and carefully looked through, with the items put back to make it look like they had not been touched. Lydia laughed when she found out they had played a guessing game as to who would get what and answered one question after another, about the trip and High Hrothgar and the Greybeards.

Lydia even approached Vilkas who looked suitably chastened, a dark bruise standing out against his pale skin. "This is for you." She held out the book.

Vilkas eyed it wearily. "Is this the one you hit me with?"

"Yes, it's got your face imprinted", Lydia snapped. "See?"

Indeed, there was a small dent in the cover that may have just as well come from being jostled around in her backpack during her journey to Whiterun. Vilkas took the tome gingerly, ready to draw back at the smallest sign that she was going to use it to hit him again.

"You deserved that one", Lydia said and when he didn't answer, flushing red, she knew he agreed.

"What's your gift?", Farkas asked when he noticed that Lydia appeared to be the only one without one.

"I don't know", she replied, only now remembering that secretive letter Wulf had written. "It's still in Breezehome."

They went over together, their arms hooked, drawing glances and mutters already. Lydia didn't care one whit about being the city's gossip fodder now that she had her man at her side, and neither did he. They found the letter. Wulf had tied it closed with some frilly ribbon that she was sure he must have ripped off one of the Greybeard's banners. She turned the paper in her hands, wondering what might be inside. It was not addressed to her, but Proventus or Jarl Balgruuf, but she was absolutely sure it was the right one.

"Open it", Farkas urged and Lydia slowly pulled the letter out of its cover.

A card with a single word written upon it fell out.

_Snoop._

Both Lydia and Farkas exchanged guilty grins and the Companion was reminded of all the times he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He offered to take the letter to Dragonsreach since it seemed inappropriate for Lydia to deal with her own gift.

 oooo

"What did Proventus get?", Lydia joked in greeting when Farkas returned.

But the Companion did not smile, an unusually serious expression on his handsome face. "Breezehome is yours."

"What!?" Surely, he was leading her on.

"That's what the steward said. Breezehome is yours now", Farkas repeated and looked at Lydia as if for confirmation. He was also dead serious.

"Oh, Mara." Wulf had given her a _house_. She could not believe he had taken it this much to heart when she had said she feared for her future. "I didn't know." It was way above the call of duty and there was no way she could repay him.

"What are you going to do with it now?", Farkas ripped her out of her thoughts.

"Dust it?", Lydia asked. "Sleep in the big bed?"

"We should initiate it", Farkas suggested, a grin already pulling at his mouth. "Let's go look at it", he decided and Lydia gave in. Together they explored every nook in the house. With Farkas, even hunting for cutlery was exciting. The warrior wanted to help her carry her things into the main room, but Lydia declined. It felt odd to just move in.

Farkas cast the bed a loving glance. "The bed in my room? It was Jergen's. Vilkas and I, we used to jump on it. Got in trouble for it, too." He laughed at the memory. "I bet this one doesn't have an impression yet."

"Farkas, no", Lydia moaned. "The thing might break down, or worse, fall through the floor and what then?"

The Companion scratched his head. "Be awkward explaining it to Proventus." He nonetheless sat down, crumpling the immaculate duvet and petted the empty place next to him. Lydia joined him and let herself fall back. The mattress was soft and bouncy, the pillows stuffed with down. This was much more comfortable than anything she had lain in a long time.

"See?", Farkas grinned. "I told you we should test it."

They did.

 

xxxx

 

Summer had passed and the storms had ravaged the countryside, announcing the coming of the cold season and somewhere in that time Lydia had begun to think of Breezehome as hers. By now she was spending as much time at Jorrvaskr as he was at her house. It was nice to have some privacy every now and again, even if the evenings at the mead hall were some of the best she remembered. Everything seemed, brighter, happier, tinted in the glow of her and Farkas' love. She did not even mind that the other Companions around her drank while she had to abstain. Only Farkas kept away from the mead, out of solidarity.

They were to be married on the twenty-fourth of Hearth Fire. The warrior had asked her, properly, with an amulet and in front of all the other Companions and Lydia had said 'yes', amidst tears and laughter and deafening cheers. Ria cried a river, wiping her eyes in the handkerchief Athis had given her, Aela looked wistful, but happy for her and Torvar's eyes were glazed with drink. He managed to slur some congratulations.

Vilkas had managed to apologize for his behaviour on the day of her return. He had taken over the management of their wedding; was inviting all the guests, making sure there would be enough food and drink and generally overlooking all other arrangements. For his brother's big day everything had to be perfect.

He also appeared nervous at the prospect of having Lydia as his sister-in law.

The housecarl found that she was actually was looking forward to being married. She and Farkas were both happy, and if they were rushing things a little, then Nords were known to fall in love hard and fast.

Only two months were left until the birth of their children, but of Lydia's Thane there was no sign.

 oooo

"He promised me he would come", Lydia told Farkas one day. "I fear something might have happened to him."

She felt Farkas shrug. He wanted his friend to be at his wedding, but also had an axe to grind with the man over his treatment of Vilkas. Farkas' way of solving such problems usually involved fists and they were not Orcs to consider an appropriate amount of bloodshed at a wedding to be a good sign, she reminded the Companion. The warrior gave her his word he would wait until after the wedding to settle any grudges.

The day Lydia and Farkas were to marry arrived, Wulf did not.

All the Companions were assembled around the temple, as well as what amounted to half of the city guard. A few, like Tilma and Torvar were seated in the benches, but mist remained standing. Farkas was wearing his best suit of armour and Lydia had a gown tailored extra for the occasion. Ria had helped her select the fabrics, and Signy had woven her hair into a complicated plait.

Lydia would never forget Farkas' expression when he saw her walking down the street with her arm linked into Vilkas'.

She could not recall a single word of the priest's sermon, or the blessings the guests bestowed upon them, but she always would remember the way her man's eyes shone, or the soft drone of his voice when he said his vows.

Above them, another storm was rolling in, thunder echoing across the tundra. The Gildergreen's rosy petals were a stark contrast to the dark blue sky and when gusts of wind made the branches swerve, a shower of red sailed down to create a carpet for the newlyweds to stand upon.

Danica said the tree was ill, and it might be, but that joyous day was stained by no such thoughts.

When the first drops of rain began to fall, the guests sought shelter in Jorrvaskr for the reception that would last well into the night.

They received more congratulations, Signy crying how her girl was all grown up now and Tilma kissing Lydia's cheek.

"These halls have seen too much sorrow lately. I wish you all the happiness in the world."

Ria, Athis, Aela and Torvar had bought gifts, and presented them proudly. There was a cradle and toys, blankets and tiny gowns that looked like they had been sewn for a doll that Tilma crooned over.

Vilkas was on his best way to getting drunk with the other Companions, laughing and joking with his brother. But there were also the silences, the glances he cast the housecarl. When there was a lull in the party, he came over and sat down next to her.

Lydia noticed that he wiped at his eyes every now and then.

"I don't remember when last I saw him so happy", Vilkas whispered with a nod towards his brother. "Thank you." He hugged her, cautiously but warmly and drifted away again.

Lydia too rejoined the festivity, she ate and danced until at long last it was time for the couple to retreat.

Lightning illuminated their way as Lydia and Farkas raced for Breezehome through the icy downpour, their fingers linked.

The housecarl opened the door and gasped when she was swept clean off her feet. Farkas had bent down and picked her up like she weighted nothing. Lydia held on to the warrior's neck as he carried her over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind them. She expected to be put down, but no, he insisted on carrying her up all the way to the bedroom.

They were both dripping wet, Lydia's dress turned almost translucent, but that was only one more reason to get rid of their clothes. The Companion smiled as he gently laid her down on the bed. Their bed. Their huge, soft, downy bed.

Wulf could have the bunk in the side room. If he decided to ever show up again.

And then Lydia didn't think about her Thane again, Farkas chasing away all thoughts except for the one about this wonderful man at her side.

 

xxxx

 

They were married scant two weeks, when Lydia awoke screaming. Farkas was lighting a wick with shaking hands as she clasped her hands to her abdomen. Her fingers touched wetness as she reached down and when the spark caught, a quivering tiny speck of light, it revealed the dark stain on the linen sheets.

Farkas was already running for the healers, naked as the day he was born while she stared with growing horror at the red dripping down her inner thighs.

 _Divines, no. Please, no_.

It was too soon.


	37. BTS

_"In the name of Skald the Elder, you are surrounded, Blacktyde! Surrender, traitor, and face the Jarl's judgment!"_

Wulf saw the blood drain from Thoring's face. Helping a man escape after an unjust accusation was one thing, but to go against the Jarl's orders was probably punishable by something nasty. The innkeeper took a step back and Wulf swung himself into the saddle.

Wulf did not need to face Skald again to know the Jarl's judgement was as crappy as the old man's underwear.

A Thane could be prosecuted only after a trial and by no other than the Jarl he served, not without raising a shitstorm large enough to fertilize the fields of the entire hold – or to drown them in blood, as it might easily be taken for an act of war.

Wulf grasped enough of the political situation to guess that Skald would welcome a war with Balgruuf, and his actions would in turn force Ulfric to act or to abandon one of his supporters, something the Jarl of Windhelm could not afford if he wanted to maintain enough power to oppose the Empire.

And Wulf couldn't care less about any of it, since a gut feeling told him he wouldn't be alive to see it happen anyway.

Outside, he could hear the Jarl's housecarl order his men to spread out and dug his heels into his horse's side, pulling at the reins. He'd need a fast start. The innkeeper shoved open the barn door for him and ran back into the house. Wulf hoped the man had enough presence of mind to blame him with threatening his...daughter or livestock, seeing as _his_ situation couldn't get much worse anyway and Thoring's act of defiance had endeared the innkeeper to him by a long way.

He had no time to fret over the other Nord's fate though, as his horse sprang forward, through the opening and shoved aside a startled soldier. Wulf clung to the reins with on hand, to the animal's mane with the other and kicked it to go faster.

A surprised shout went up from the soldiers and Wulfryk prayed there were no archers amongst them. The guard had formed a loose half-circle around the inn and some drew near, only to jump back again when he showed no intention of slowing down at a few calls of ' _halt!_ ' The warrior chose a gap and went for it, wishing only he was good enough a rider that he could pull his sword and have a weapon to keep the soldiers at bay.

Something was swung at him and he swerved hard to the right, feeling the blow glance off the shield that hung at his side. Then he was past, the distance between him and the soldiers growing with every leap his horse took. Most likely, they had expected to catch him flat-footed and for the Nord to come with them without putting up any fight.

He wasn't out of danger yet, though. The street he was racing along was leading him in the wrong direction, _into_ town and the greater part of Dawnstar's guard was following close on his heels. Wulf cast a glimpse back, thanked the Divines that there was nobody shooting at him since they'd have a pretty clear shot right now and when he looked ahead again, a heartbeat later, a Nord was standing right before him, cursing vividly and shaking a fist. Wulf had a brief glimpse of a bald head and then the man went down with a spray of snow, his string of obscenities cut off abruptly.

Wulf felt his horse groan with the collision; it stumbled over the fallen Nord, righted itself and ran on.

With a sinking feeling Wulf watched the Jarl's prone form lying in the snow. Any moment now the guard would find him and now he actually would have a crime to answer for.

Kyne's stormy cunt, he had ridden down the old codger. Because he just had to place himself right in the way of a borderline out-of-control, galloping horse.

The road was curving to the right and Wulf saw light ahead – the mob the housecarl had mentioned. They were screaming something and he thought he could discern a few pitchforks that were brandished in his direction. This was like some bad adventure novel that he had never wanted to find himself in and he would have laughed his ass off at the protagonist, except that it just happened to be him.

Wulf swerved left, rode through a narrow alleyway, slowing down when he heard his horse's hooves clatter over stone. He couldn't risk the animal twisting a leg. The warrior emerged near the market, crossed it and took the next broad lane. He cursed when he realized it seemed to double back.

There were shouts ahead of him now. That was bad. Some of his pursuers must have taken a shortcut. He should have paid more attention to the village's layout. Another turn, right this time and he saw an opening between the houses and raced for it.

Suddenly, Wulf was out in the open and a guy dropped a torch in shock, fumbling for something that the warrior did not recognize in the brief flash as he passed. There were more people ahead, he realized – _damn, didn't these folks sleep_ – and when he saw the archer, Wulf blew the unsuspecting farmer and his buddies straight into Sovngarde...or wherever it was belligerent cattle ended up.

His horse cleared the laughable barricade they had hastily erected at the town's entrance with one powerful jump and Wulfryk did some impressive dodging all the while trying not to steer them into a tree. One branch managed to catch him and though he turned his head away, he felt it rip a gash from the corner of his eye to the temple.

Horse and rider burst into a clearing and the Nord stopped his panicked, neck-breaking flight, one hand checking his eye for damage. He did not think there was any, and quickly let the wound be. He had bigger problems right now than an unsightly scratch.

After hearing the explosion this place would be swarming with soldiers any minute, but he would regret it if he ran in the wrong direction. Over the treetops Wulf saw the silhouette of some tower, dark against the bright light of Silfir. The Nord remembered the gloomy fortress that loomed over the town.

He cautiously picked his way through the light forest, avoiding the deeper pools of shadow. True to his course Wulf found the main road without having to search for it. Beneath him, his horse was snorting, happy with the impromptu opportunity to stretch its legs. It wanted to run some more, but its rider allowed no more than a brisk trot. He couldn't continue on the main road forever, but tonight it was the fastest way to put some distance between himself and Dawnstar.

Later, as couriers were sent out he could no longer risk running into patrols. He'd worry about that when the time came. Behind the warrior the sounds of pursuit had faded, and lived up again with the echo of dogs barking.

Unless the Jarl was an expert breeder of horses they stood little chance at overtaking him. On the upside, he knew where they were searching for him and they were losing ground fast.

Wulf slowed down some more, sacrificing speed for endurance and thought back to the first hurried departure in his life that he could recall. He had been ten years old when he had buried an axe in a man for the first time. The Imperial swine had deserved it, too.

With some other citizens standing witness to the crime, he had done the only thing he had been able to think of: get his father. Garmr usually was very good at getting himself into fights, but it turned out he was even better at escaping them; and with all their meagre belongings bundled up under one arm, his son clinging to the same, and two guards cut down further along their path, he stole them a horse and butchered the remaining ones – Bruma had been a small town in the mountains and there had been only the one stable – and the protesting stable hand right alongside them.

Wulf had been unceremoniously lifted in front of the saddle, and with the bells tolling in their wake, they had left, riding hard south.

Wulfryk recalled being heartbroken when his father sold the horse when they had come to the Imperial City.

He had returned to Bruma more than fifteen years later, kept his head low and only swiped a meat pie from a stall when the vendor wasn't looking – for old time's sake. He had discovered that Garmr and his bastard had become something of a local legend.

Apparently dad knew how to make friends wherever he went.

Wulf could have done without inheriting _that_ particular trait.

He rode through the night, with short breaks in which he lead his horse. The black had lost its enthusiasm over the nightly trip hours ago. Wulf couldn't blame it. He didn't fancy being rousted either.

Colour was bleeding back into the world when the Nord arrived at a crossroads. Wulf closed his eyes and tried to recall all the maps of Skyrim he had seen so far, with rather limited success. He thought he remembered this place, though. He had slept in the vicinity on his way to the accursed town.

The Nord could not ride back the way he had used to come here. That would take him throughout the hold. The sooner he got out of the Pale, the better. Likewise, going north was not an option. If he steered west he'd have to hit the coast and from there he could go south.

Somewhere in that direction lay Hjaalmarch, and beyond that Haafingar. But Haafingar and Solitude were the centre of the Imperial operations and Wulf did not want end up on the chopping block again if he ran across somebody who had not forgotten 'Brynjolf of Dawnstar'.

_Fuck Dawnstar._

The warrior chose to follow the road on the right.

For the most part the ride was uneventful. Wulf was keeping ahead of the news and encountered no trouble, the one patrol that he missed until it was upon him nearly stopped his heart, but none of the soldiers paid the weary traveller any notice.

A week later the weather began to change. The clouds became heavier, and the smell of snow was in the air. A few more days and wet, heavy flakes were swirling through the air, a light dusting of white at first that thickened by the hour. The mountains to his left that Wulf had been able to see until midday disappeared first, and then the forest did. He spent the night in a tower that looked like nothing he had ever seen before: it had not been built by the Nords of now, of that he was sure, but neither did it bear any resemblance to their ancient tombs. The structure was solid and it provided him with a roof over his head and that was all he needed. A huge door, its wings made from some metal that gleamed like copped, led inside, but it was shut and Wulf didn't feel particularly adventurous today.

He wished for Athis' cloak as he curled up in his tent with only his oil lamp for warmth and listened to his horse paw at the snow in an attempt to get to the frozen grass hidden beneath until sleep overtook him.

The snowstorm abated during the night, but picked up ferocity again a few hours into the day. It became a problem only after they left the woods behind him, where the road was obviously the swathe that had been cut through the trees. Out in the open the landscape was drowning beneath a blanket of white; dusky and muted.

At first Wulf could make the road out by the sound his horse's hooves made, the firm thump against packed earth, but it was all too soon replaced by the soft, gritty crunch of fresh snow and then he could only hope he was heading in the right direction. The sun did not show herself through the day, but just like before it cleared up enough at night that he caught a glimpse of the stars and corrected his course; he had strayed too far west.

One day was much like the other, and they blended together into a misery of wet, cold, stiff and hungry. For once though Wulf was not complaining. He had gotten away unscathed and there was no way the Jarl's men were going to find him in this weather.

The Nord had put roughly half the distance between Dawnstar and Morthal behind him when the blizzard stuck, for good this time. Wulf could practically watch the snow pile up inch by inch, the former snowfall seeming laughable by comparison. It wasn't cold – not by Skyrim's winter standards at any rate, and not after his stay atop the Throat of the World, but the visibility dropped to a few feet. Wulf cursed, torn between what he should do.

The decision was taken from him when the ground suddenly opened beneath his horse's hooves and they almost broke both of their necks falling into the hole.

'Dustman's Cairn', flashed through Wulf's mind before he remembered that he had to be a good two hundred miles further north.

The structure was identical, though, a wide circular opening in the ground that was well concealed beneath the snow. A few stones stood around it, their shape barely visible through the blinding white. After dismounting Wulf managed to coax his horse down; the stairs that ran along the outer perimeter having turned into a slide. It was as good a place to stay as any and they found shelter beneath the stairway. It was better than nothing, at any rate.

Wulf tried the doors and they turned out to be barred or frozen shut. With luck the fact that he could not get in also meant that nothing from the inside could get out. The warrior rid his horse of its saddle and unfolded the saddle rug to cover the animal with it. Up until now it had found enough grass to feed itself, but he noticed its ribs were protruding more than was healthy. Wulf gave his brave beast a pat on the nuzzle and almost got his fingers bitten off for the gesture.

He did not sleep that night, only dozed fitfully and awoke earlier than usual to see that the weather pattern had held. If he started out now he would maybe have a couple of hours before he would be forced to seek shelter again. Something pulled at his thoughts, had invaded his dreams; a strange call he did not understand and did his best to ignore. Wulf shook his head, rubbing at the temples to rid himself of the headache. The gash he had acquired during his mad dash through the wood had healed without giving him any difficulties.

The Nord put his horse back into tack, something he could do with his eyes closed by now. He had a hurried breakfast of half-frozen leftovers while he jumped up and down to work some warmth into his limbs. Wulf was in the middle of taking a leak on one of the standing stones – showing his general dislike of tombs and giving the wolves something to puzzle over simultaneously, when he heard the groan behind him.

Bad timing, if there ever was one. An unkempt man shuffled up the steps, face red with blotches and puffy eyes scrunched closed against the light. He had a mostly empty bottle of ale in one hand and the other on the laces of his breeches and took his position a polite distance away from Wulf.

The other Nord moaned with relief at his early-morning piss and guzzled the rest of the ale, tossing the bottle away. "Morning", he grunted.

Wulf grunted back. He had made notice of the patched leathers and fur, and an axe topped in rust. Or dried blood and willed his bladder to hurry up. Some things could not be rushed.

It was then Wulfryk's horse tossed its head, impatient with its rider's tardiness and snorted. The other man's head shot up instantly. Wulf kept an eye on the guy at the same time the other stared at him, slack-jawed with surprise.

"-'the _fuck_ are you?", the Nord slurred, the hand that wasn't holding his cock rubbing his eyes.

 _Awkward_. Necessity taken care of, Wulf did up his pants in record time. "I was just leaving." He backed away and jumped into the saddle, taking off before the stranger had gathered enough wits to go for his weapon.

He could not believe he had slept right on top of a bandit hideout.

'What's next?', Wulf thought sourly and glared up at the heavens. He was due a break, dammit!

The gods were not listening, probably too busy setting in motion events from Wulfryk's bucket list of things he did not want to do. By midday, he was disoriented and almost certainly off-course. When evening fell, he was hopelessly lost.

On the bright side, he had found water. It wasn't the sea and it smelled boggy. Hjaalmarch, then. The thin crust of ice he had not noticed he was riding on broke and his horse sank in right up to its knees. The black shied back from the unwanted bath and pranced nervously, unwilling to take one more step forward.

There was no going that way, Wulf knew. What he did not know was how far into the bog he had already managed to stray. From that point on he was forced to test the ground, poking at it with a stick to determine whether he was walking over solid land or over ice.

On the downside, he was hearing voices.

It took him the better part of an hour to figure out that he _really_ was hearing voices and almost twice as long to find the source. The camp was well hidden, low tents forming a ring between the stones of a small dale. Wulf did not even need to announce his arrival. His horse neighed loudly and shrilly and several other horses answered. Immediately, soldiers poured out of the tents, first and foremost a hefty Nord who made up for the lack of hair atop his head with his beard. He had a war hammer he held in both hands, but it was not him Wulf was worried about, but the two or three soldiers with bows.

Running away would only make him look like he had a reason to run, and besides he needed the shelter, had almost run out of food and his horse was not in a good shape either. They weren't attacking on sight and that was a good sign.

Wulf broke the silence. " _Vestu heil_. I got lost in the snowstorm. I would seek shelter."

The leader nodded, unblinking eyes trailed on him. "Tell us first, _frændi_ , whom do you serve?"

There was nothing to give him a clue of their alliance, nothing, but for the stripe of blue cloth tied over the bicep of one of the men in the back who had not thrown on a cloak in his hurry.

Wulf took his chance. "The one true High King of Skyrim: Ulfric Stormcloak."

The Captain broke out in a smile. "Aye. I'm Arrald Frozen-Heart, the Captain of this camp."

Wulf did his best not to show his relief and continued, "I am friends with a man named Ralof of Riverwood."

Arrald nodded, shouldering his hammer, his men dispersing, eager to get out of the storm and back into their tents now that their commander obviously had the situation well in hand. "I know Ralof. Come, friend. There's food and a warm fire."

Wulf dismounted and led his horse to the corrals where Arrald ordered their farrier to take care of its hooves and irons and to feed it properly. The soldiers still out were huddling around a fire and moved closer together to make space for the two men. Wulf sat down between a brunette woman and the Captain. The others introduced themselves, mumbling their names over the brims of their cloaks and one of the Stormcloaks filled a bowl for the newcomer. Wulf smiled at her, grateful for the hot food, but still weary. They let him finish his meal, before the officer once more turned his attention to their guest.

"So, why are you not with your troop, soldier?"

An innocent enough question on the surface, but he knew it was laced with more than friendly curiosity.

"I am on leave after I was shot twice", Wulf replied, wiping the empty bowl clean with snow before he handed it back. "Went to visit my family." It was even partly true. Wulf pulled down his shirt a notch to reveal the scar from the arrow wound the Silver Hand had given him.

He received a few winces and a clap on his shoulder for an impressive scar from the lass next to him. The commander regarded him with one eyebrow raised.

"I'd have to drop my pants to show you the other." Wulf grinned and the soldiers chuckled, one of them refilling his mug with some spicy brew.

"Whom did you serve with?"

Wulf had to give the Stormcloak officer credit for his gentle interrogation. Give him food and drink and hope he'd slip something.

"Gonnar. Oath-Giver", Wulf replied, thanking Ralof for being, well, Chatty. He smiled and continued "Only thing I've ever heard him swear by is Dibella."

Arrald snorted, draining his mug. "That's Gonnar, alright."

As much as the company was welcome, Wulfryk sensed that he was intruding. Additionally, the less he said the less likely he was to blurt out something he should not. He did not even have to feign tiredness. Arrald showed him where he could spend the night, curled up between supply crates. It was dry though and out of the wind and he slept like a log and woke slightly disoriented to the ring of iron being beaten.

 oooo

He didn't have any money left, so he traded his moderate skill at healing for supplies, staying with the soldiers for a total of three days, being greeted by a clear blue sky and sunshine of the morning of the fourth. It was time to move on.

"This is still the Pale?", Wulf asked Arrald in the Captain's command tent.

"Yes."

Wulf doubted that it was. If these soldiers were watching the border, they wouldn't do it in a camp that looked like it was built for maximum defence and could be torn down within minutes. He nodded, not letting his thoughts show and sighed. "Ugh, Talos' balls, I got completely turned around."

Arrald did not call him out for the blasphemy, but proceeded to show him the fastest way to the highway that linked Morthal with Solitude, pointing out all the landmarks he should look out for. He did not pull out a map, though, so as not to show him where exactly the camp was. It only served to confirm Wulf's suspicion: he had left the Pale behind him. At least that meant Old Skald could get lost.

"Morthal is south-west of here", the Stormcloak said. "After you find it, stick to the road and you can't miss it. But I have to warn you, Hjaalmarch is Imperial territory."

"I know. What is the Jarl like?"

"Idgrod?" The warrior ran his fingers through his blonde beard. "They say she has visions and such. Crazy old crone, if you ask me. But she seems less sympathetic to the Imperial cause than other Jarls. More of an opportunist, that one, so you should do fine as long as you keep your head down and your wits about you."

"Thank you." Wulf meant it.

 oooo

He found Morthal without any further difficulties.

It was a non-descript settlement, built on the only dry patch in the bog that was this hold. A poet might call it rural or even charming. Wulf did not think much further beyond the fact that it smelled of mould and wet wool and the marshes, a festering reek of algae and stagnant, brackish water. It was far too similar to the Waterfront for his comfort. Fishing boats were docked to Wulf's right, bobbing gently with the waves, small chunks of crushed ice floating between them. He passed the Jarl's hall, and the apothecary, where an elderly woman was leading a child by the hand. Wulf left the pier, the road becoming paved once more and looked around for an inn when the boy stopped as if rooted to the ground.

None of that was exceptional, except that then he lifted his arm to point a finger at the warrior and loudly asked, "Mama? Why is that man a dragon?"

Wulf's heart missed a beat, he could not believe just what he had heard. What-?

The elderly woman at his side that he would have mistaken for his grandmother spared a glance at the stranger. Something flared up in her eyes that were as black as her hair.

"Hush, Joric", she told the child. "Don't you know dragons eat foolish boys?"

She then straightened like nothing unusual had occurred and spoke, "So, life has brought you to Morthal, and to me. What purpose this serves, we will no doubt see." The crone laughed at her own words before her voice dropped into a throaty alto that in her younger years must have been quite seductive. "Greetings, traveller. You are safe here."

Wulf had been toying with the thought of just riding on and ignoring their weird behaviour, but those words brought him up short. "Why would you say that?", he asked, tone friendly and keeping his face blank with only a hint of curiosity.

"The sins of our fathers are not ours to answer for", came the knowing reply. "You are welcome to stay in Morthal."

Wulf found his mouth dry and his heart in his throat. "Thank you, but I have filled my quota of crazy earlier this month." He kicked his horse, eager to get away from the lady and her shrewd, far too-knowing eyes. They did remind him of a raven's, beads of black – curious and clever and without pity.

"I'm afraid I must insist." She gave the boy at her side a small push and he ran to disappear into the apothecary.

Wulf was going to ask just on what principle the hag wanted to do that when she answered the unspoken question.

"I am, as you are most likely unaware of, Jarl Idgrod. Ravencrone they also call me."

 _How fitting_. He could not afford to get on the bad side of another Jarl. "I'm-"

"I know who you are, Dragonborn", she interrupted him with a wave of her hand, "For I have seen your coming."

Wulf felt cold and it wasn't from the weather. Somehow he knew that playing the ignorant dolt would only serve to amuse her. "How did you know?" Balgruuf had been very strict in his instructions to keep his identity a secret.

Idgrod chuckled. "You stand in the sun, yet in the shadow of black wings."

That was it. So far only Paarthurnax and Wulf knew of Alduin's return."Have you foreseen my going?", Wulf asked, more harshly than he had intended to. She was giving him the shivers and he was not ashamed to admit it. "No? Because that's happening _now_."

She made no move to stop him, only softly said, "I would not go that way."

"Why?" He did not even know why he let himself be drawn into any more talk.

"Because that's where Jarl Skald's men are searching for you." She raised her eyebrows. "It _is_ you they are looking for, I take it?"

Wulf barked a laugh that had nothing to do with amusement and everything with desperation. "How do you know that?" He was willing to blow up another Jarl to keep his hide intact. For her own sake he hoped she had seen _that_.

"Because I sent them there", Idgrod replied, no longer smiling. Maybe she indeed sensed his intentions. "This meeting was fated to happen. I need to speak to you." When Wulf showed no sign of listening, not moving to dismount, she added, "Your secret is safe with me."

Wulf inclined his head. He had heard, but he after recent events he did not believe one word of it. "Why should I trust you?"

"I do not think you would be as foolish as to do that", the Jarl replied, aghast. " _Ek-heit",_ and then, "Come, the fire is warm in my hall and once you thaw I am sure you would welcome a bath."

Wulf dismounted. He wondered whether she had cast some spell to compel him to do to her bidding, because he felt powerless in the presence of an old woman that he could have knocked down at the age of ten. He speculated whether he would slit his own throat if she asked it of him. The thought bore no fear, no disgust, just a certain tang of inevitability and sadness. Wulf mused whether she sensed his distress.

"I feel it", Idgrod sighed, head tilted back to face the sky. "It is doom. Yours, to be precise, but our lives are tied to yours", she explained. "Skald is an idiot for not realizing what is at stake here."

Other than the fact that she was speaking in riddles it made perfect sense. Idgrod called for a man named Gorm and he appeared from around the corner and Wulf handed him the reins. He smiled at the housecarl, who in turn handed his horse to another man, and followed him into Highmoon Hall. The warrior tried dragging his feet, to resist, if only for a brief while, but to no avail. He gave up and wearily complied with the force that was guiding his step.

"Make sure our visitor is comfortable and his horse looked after", the Jarl said, to their backs.

Wulf was shown to a room where servants filled a bathtub with hot water and clean clothes and towels were laid out for him. "Clean up after yourself", the housecarl grunted before he left. "We're not an inn."

Wulf did as he was bidden. His mind was curiously blank, all worries gone. He let his feet dangle over the tub's brim and leaned back, floating in the water he was at peace, enjoying the relaxation the hot water brought him. He bid his time.

By the time Wulf clambered out of the tub, the spell had worn off. He felt a faint pulse at his temples, a sure sign that the crone had indeed cast a hex on him, and he had to admire her subtlety. The Nord had never noticed her weave the magic. He plastered on a happy smile and a blank look and exited the room.

 oooo

Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone was sitting at one head of the table, her husband at the other. Her housecarl was seated at her right, and Wulf at her left. There were other people present, the court mage and the Legate stationed in Hjaalmarch, who was currently trying to convince the steward of the threat the Stormcloaks posed.

"Who is our visitor, love?", Aslfur asked his wife, ignoring the Imperial.

"A distant relation", Idgrod answered. "His mother and mine were cousins."

Wulf smiled politely. He was not sure whether the witch was aware her spell had worn off, but it was better if she thought so. He felt a brief stab at the mention of his mother that he had never known, but even so the Jarl's words were most likely just another carefully woven lie.

The Imperial soldier went back to lecturing the brown-haired Nord. "I tell you, they are close. We received reports of movement-"

"Ah, Legate Taurinus", Idgrod drawled, interrupting his tirade. "Maybe this young man here can set your mind at ease, if my husband's word is not enough."

Wulf smiled at the Imperial. His face was beginning to ache.

"You said you came from the north?", the soldier enquired. Wulf had said nothing the like. "Did you come across any Stormcloaks?"

'Yes', Wulf thought. 'They fed me, gave me shelter and did not chop off my head for being in the wrong place at the wrong time by accident.' "No", he answered. "Sorry." He wasn't.

The Jarl hid her smile behind her cup.

 oooo

Wulfryk was asked to join Idgrod in her private chambers and he found no way to refuse without raising suspicion. Thankfully the crone only served him a tea that she was drinking as well, so he felt it was safe to sip the liquid.

"You can drop the act now", the Jarl told him after a few minutes of sitting in silence. "I am sorry for what I did I felt was necessary."

Wulf grunted in answer. He was way out of his league here and he knew it. And he never fancied being manipulated.

"Idgrod went on, "But I sensed you would have run and I could not allow that to happen. Please, understand that I bear you no ill will." Suddenly she slumped in her seat, just an old, weary woman.

"Are you alright?", Wulf asked tentatively. There was something about her that made him want to believe it.

"I will be", Idgrod replied with a small smile. "I don't know what you have been told, but they take their toll. The visions", she explained. "Looking at you is like looking at the countryside, when you spin really fast."

"I make you want to throw up?", Wulf enquired sceptically.

"Oh my dear", the Jarl chuckled. "Nothing quite as drastic, I assure you."

"What do you see?", the warrior asked, intrigued. He had only known Khajiiti mystics and those usually made their predictions when high on skooma and fumes, not stone cold sober in their bedrooms.

"Many things", Idgrod replied elusively. "I see-" Her eyes went wide. "Oh."

"What? Tell me." He should not order around a Jarl, but that small exclamation of surprise made Wulf sit upright.

"Now, dear", the Jarl chided as she would her child. "That would only spoil the surprise. Don't fret, it is a good one."

Wulf wasn't happy, but he sensed he would not get anything else out of her. "So, Imperials, eh?", he asked. It seemed the topic of the war was a safer one than the one of his persona. It was not a thought that cheered him up.

"For the time being."

"So you are not on their side", Wulfryk concluded.

"I am on the side of Morthal", Idgrod replied simply, stirring her tea.

The warrior snorted and saw her brow wrinkle. "Now you sound like Balgruuf."

"I wish more people did. He is a wise man, not to get involved with this war. Skyrim's future is hidden from me, alas, as is the fate of the Jarl of Windhelm. Events spiral towards their pinnacle and amidst chaos ancient forces wake." Idgrod tilted forward, her head lolling against her chest.

"Jarl?", Wulf asked, but she droned on as is she could not hear him.

"The World-Eater's wings darken the sky and in the shadows the Sun's Foes stir. First and Last, and so the Cycle is complete." Her head snapped up, suddenly, as if yanked on by a string and she stared at him unblinkingly with those beady eyes. "Watch out for the past. When it catches up to you, you will know the time has come."

Wulf felt the sweat tickle as it ran down his back, cold in the stifling heat of the room. How was he going to explain the Jarl had lost the last shreds of her already tattered sanity and that his presence was a mere coincidence? Before he came up with something plausible, like blaming the herbs in the tea, Idgrod grunted, shook her head and blinked.

"I'm sorry dear. I must have dropped off", she said. "Happens more often at my age than I am comfortable admitting to at out stage of acquaintanceship."

Wulf nodded, wide-eyed, still spooked by her behaviour.

"Gorm!", the Jarl called weakly for her housecarl. "Help an old woman!"

"I need to get back to Whiterun", Wulf whispered.  He couldn't get out of here fast enough.

Idgrod regarded him with those unsettling black eyes of hers. "Don't go through Labyrinthian", she advised. "Ride for the Eldersblood Peak, then take the Cold Rock Pass. Turn east, go past ruins of Rannveig's Fast and ride along the mountain range. You will approach Whiterun from the north-west. Have my husband show you the maps."

Wulf nodded his understanding and rose. "Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you. Dragonborn-", she called and seemed to want to say something, but rethought her decision. Idgrod settled for, "This is goodbye. I am afraid I'm going to be indisposed tomorrow at the time of your leaving."

The warrior showed himself out, not meeting the furious gaze of the Jarl's housecarl. It was not his fault she had insisted on seeing him. He could breathe a little easier when the doors closed behind him.

Idgrod watched her visitor leave with a heavy heart. She had almost warned him of his future; it was dark enough without him falling into the webs spun around Whiterun and the Companions.

_Beware of the child. Beware of whispers in the dark, the sweet seduction of betrayal. Beware of Whiterun, for it is ripe with it, rotting from the very inside._

"I am sorry", the Jarl whispered, a tear trickling down her wrinkled cheek and then, more resolutely, "It is for the best."

In the corridor Wulf met the Jarl's husband. Aslfur grabbed him by the upper arm, fingers surprisingly strong for a steward. "Whatever she told you, you better heed it", the man said intently. "I know what the word is about my wife, but more of her predictions have come true than not. And I have been keeping a tally for over thirty years."

Wulf nodded at the man. There was just no way Idgrod could know about all those things – either her gift was genuine or she was a master actress and her spies travelled on wings. He was given back all his belongings and a room to stay in for the night, and set out again before the sun had risen.

 

xxxx

 

Athis spotted the rider first. "Is that- ?"

Ria shielded her eyes with one hand and waved with the other, drawing the attention of the rider. He stopped for a brief while before he turned his horse from the road and towards them.

A few more minutes and there was no mistaking the familiar figure. "Wulf!"

Their fellow Companion raised a hand in greeting, a tired smile playing around his lips. "Hello, Ria", he greeted when he was close enough. "Athis."

The Imperial girl had stepped forward, but when he did not dismount to greet them properly and she had a good look at his face, she almost did a double-take. "What happened to you?"

He looked terrible, dirty and almost as shaggy as his horse that she remembered once being a noble half-blooded steed, not the mass of snarls and tangles it was now.

Wulfryk grimaced. Things had not gone as smoothly from Morthal on as they had before. Apparently the snowstorm he had been caught in had not raged across the entire countryside, and in addition to that Wulf had learned the hard way that Skald didn't care one whit about hold borders.

He now had a squad of dead soldiers to add to his tally.

The encounter had forced him to travel at night, and go into hiding during the day. He had no longer been able to light a fire to keep him warm and slept on the ground, ready to travel at the slightest notice of pursuit, and never for longer than he needed to.

More memories of a life he had thought he had left behind, and that was without the ambushes he had been forced to dodge. At least the guards were bloody unimaginative. His younger self would have rolled with laughter at their attempts, but then not everybody had the experience he did.

The success tasted bitter.

"Lydia came back months ago!", Ria berated him, confused and with more than just a little ire. She thought they were friends, and here he was barely acknowledging his shield-siblings, behaving towards them as a stranger would. It hurt. "You had us all worried!"

At that Wulf perked up. "How is she?", he asked, surprisingly warmly.

"She has married Farkas and given birth to twins", Ria replied in an accusatory tone. _And you were not there._

" _Skíta_!" Wulf cursed vehemently enough for the two Companions to take a step back. "I tried to make it", he said with an odd self-disparaging smile.

He sure did look like he had not stopped anywhere resembling an inn on his way here. Ria wondered if those really was grass in his hair and if he had a pair of black eyes, or just signs of extreme exhaustion. When he'd last shaved. Or bathed.

As if he had read her thoughts, Athis asked, "When did you last sleep?"

"In Morthal", the warrior replied, unaware that his answer made no sense and cast a look over his shoulder. He was nervous and weary, and not at all the laid-back, charismatic man she remembered from – almost a year ago. A lot of things must have happened to change him like that.

"Ran into trouble, did you?", Athis remarked wryly, glancing in the same direction.

"For once in my life, I am innocent", Wulf sighed. He looked like he wanted to break down and weep and then in the same instant the expression was gone and he grinned, a flicker of his old self showing. "All bad things start with ‘d'", he drawled, as if citing some great wisdom. "Dragons, draugr, Daedra, _Dawnstar_.”

Athis was snickering. Wulf shot him a filthy look and added “Dunmer.”

The elf bent over laughing and Ria shook her head. Boys.

"Thank you for the cloak, by the way", the elf wheezed. "It is absolutely lovely."

Something flared up in Wulf's eyes, a joke none of them was privy to. "Glad you like it. Sorry I'm...", he made a vague motion with his hand, not even trying to come up with some outrageous lie to make up for his behaviour. "But, I really need to talk to Balgruuf."

"More trouble?", Athis enquired with his usual dry humour, but he and Ria exchanged troubled looks.

Wulfryk sobered up in an instant. "Like you don't know."

You knew things were bad when not even the Nord found something to joke about. "This might be a bad time", Ria cautiously began. When she only received a blank look in return, the Companion explained, "The Jarl's son is gone."

Wulf did not appear fazed at the news. "Again?" He sounded as tired as he looked.

"Yes." On Athis' face there was no trace of the laughter from before. "But this time it's been six days since he last was seen."

It had been quite the scene, and all of Whiterun was talking about what had – allegedly – happened. Most stories agreed that the boy had shouted at his father – something about his mother. Ria was actually glad she had not been there to see the look on Balgruuf's face.

She told Wulf none of that.

"Anyway, half of Whiterun is looking for him. Balgruuf is sick with worry. He did not put out gold for finding the boy, afraid it might draw the wrong kind of attention, but everybody knows he'll break eventually."

"What about the other Companions?", Wulf enquired, although the Imperial sensed that his attention was wavering.

"We haven't found as much as a hair from his head", Athis admitted. "Irileth has most of the guard out, scourging the countryside. Nothing", he finished quietly.

Wulf nodded and rubbed his eyes. "I'll help", he muttered. "I just _really_ need to talk to Balgruuf first." He felt sorry for burdening the Jarl further, but it was also a matter of his life. Things were about to get so much worse.

 

xxxx

 

Wulf bid Ria and Athis farewell and good luck, promising to join them soon and urged his horse on. The black now had a lean hardness to it, same as its rider. In a distant corner of his mind Wulf felt sorry for being so cold to his friends, but this was not the time for a heartfelt reunion. He'd apologize and buy drinks for everybody at the Bannered Mare later. For now reaching the Jarl was all that mattered. And then he'd get some sleep. By now the deprivation was bad enough he no longer felt it. Wulfryk knew he was running on his last reserves, but he'd always been able to pull himself together when it really mattered.

There was that churning feeling in his stomach, and not just from hunger. He had cut cross-country from Dustman's Cairn to gain some time and expected it to get better the closer he was to Whiterun, but instead it only got worse, up to the point where he felt physically ill. He would usually have run, but that was not an option now, seeing as had nowhere to run to. So the warrior ploughed on, the miles between him and the city dwindling and his unease growing.

The sun was setting, a huge ball of orange, and through his drooping lids Wulf could see the city when the man appeared seemingly out of nowhere, blocking his path.

Wulf knew him, by name even. Brand. Shit, if this was retribution for killing his buddies at Bleak Falls Barrow-

Wulf never got to finish that thought. He might have reacted faster if he wasn't dead tired, but that and the fact that he had let down his guard, seeing as he was maybe two hour's ride from Whiterun made his response too slow.

The bandit had brought his friends, and they stepped up from behind the sparse rocks that were strewn around the tundra.

"That's him, boys", was the last thing Wulf heard before he was knocked off his horse and landed hard, skidding a few feet and bruising his ribs against stone. Even so he tried to roll to his feet, one hand fumbling for the hilt of his sword while the world around him reeled. Funny, that his last thought after his face made close acquaintance with one of the bandits' shields, was of Idgrod.


	38. BTS

Something was burning. It was to the bitter, biting smell of scorched food that Wulf awoke. His shoulders ached, his wrists were raw and his face felt like it was on fire. He hoped that was not the case.

Slowly, more and more of his surroundings registered. The warmth and flickering of a fire. The fact that he was lying on his side, arms behind his back. Hay, scratching roughly against his cheek. By the sound of things, he was alone for the moment. Wulf groaned and tried to roll over only for his ribs to send a stab of pain through his side. Somebody had beaten him up. Just wonderful.

He realized that his hands were bound behind his back when he tried to scratch his nose. The Nord sighed and resigned himself to lying still. He really wasn't into that sort of thing.

Unconsciousness was like a quicksand, trying to drag him under. The warrior conjured a tiny spark to burn through the rope around his wrists and retied his bonds more loosely. Nobody would notice the smell amidst the stink of a burnt meal. Wulf then gave in to the desire of his body to rest and dozed off again. Ironically, this was the longest and most peaceful sleep he had had in days.

 oooo

Voices. They were like tiny needles stabbing into his head; each word a painful throb to enhance his headache. Despite himself Wulf tried to understand what they were saying, without much success. An echo distorted every sentence – he had to be in a cave. The arm he had been lying on felt numb, like it was not a part of his body and his breathing was heavy, the air stuffy and too hot. For a brief moment the Nord wondered if maybe he was hurt worse than he had believed at first. The voices were coming closer too, a man and a woman. Soon, he could make out footsteps that stopped not a foot away from where his head was resting.

Then, after a brief pause, some tricked over his face, wet and cold.

If that bastard was taking a piss on his face-

Wulf's snorted and jerked back, now fully conscious and his eyes opened. The one that wasn't swollen shut did, at least.

He saw a pair of boots, caked in mud and corded pants, patched at the knee, thankfully done up. When Wulf rolled on his back he saw a dark figure, backlit by the campfire, holding a pitcher of water and currently emptying it over his head.

"Rise and shine", the bandit drawled, and tipped the jug entirely.

"Fuck off", Wulf responded without any heat and shivered with the splash of icy wetness. Something grit between his teeth. Wulf winced and felt around with his tongue and spit out a broken off part of his tooth. There went his good looks.

He did not need Jarl Idgrod's magical foresight to predict a particularly nasty death by being strangled with his own entrails for the bastard who had knocked him out. Wulf sat up, spluttering and shaking his head to get rid of the wet strands of hair that stuck to his face. The revenge fantasy remained.

Then, he looked around. Cave. Bandits. His fortune had not improved much.

"He's awake", the bandit called to somebody Wulf could not see.

Wulfryk was alive, which meant this was not the run-of-the –mill robbery; hit and run with no witnesses left. He had to be worth more to them alive than dead, which gave the Nord some precious time to think of a way how to escape. Maybe they wanted to ransom him to the Jarl?

Wulf was all in favour. Then he could just lie here and let them do all the work.

On the other hand, they might want to turn him over to Skald.

Right. Escaping it was.

When the guy in front of him moved to the side, Wulf saw another man lean against the far wall with his arms crossed. He pushed off and sauntered over, but did not come any closer than strictly necessary. He had hair so red the top of his head looked like it was on fire in the flickering light of the campfire, and skin covered so heavily in freckles he looked sunburnt. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Wulfryk realized that they had met before. It was the Silver Hand he had bumped into on his way to Jorrvaskr, right before he had left with Farkas to walk into their trap.

"You try anything", the redhead who likely as not was the boss of this rabble addressed his prisoner, "We slit his throat."

"Whose?" Brands? Or that guy's who had woken him so rudely? Yes, please, though that was probably too much to hope for.

The Silver Hand snapped his fingers like his underling was a dog. He kind of did look like a mutt.

"Bring the boy."

They did, at knife's point and Wulf recognized the Jarl's son, dishevelled and shaking with two clear streaks from crying across his dirt-smeared face. He might have said something highly inappropriate for the ears of a ten-year-old, then.

"Going to behave yourself?", the redhead asked gently, like he was enquiring after the weather. Something about his manner seemed off, but Wulf could not pin it down.

"Yeah", the Nord answered. Like he had any choice.

Nelkir was led away again. When he had disappeared, the redheaded leader nodded in satisfaction and ordered Wulf's bonds cut, much to the warrior's surprise. Wulfryk rubbed his wrists, like any person would, not letting on that he had loosened them hours ago.

They mustn't have thought him a threat if they let him go freely about their cave, but then the guards had weapons and he did not. Any fight he'd get himself into, he was bound to lose. Wulf did not like the options that left him with. The Silver Hand yet had to reveal what he wanted him for. He pulled a bottle out of a pack and pressed it into his captive's hands.

"Here", he said. "She did not want you harmed. Rest assured the one responsible had been appropriately disciplined." The words were delivered tonelessly, and they sent goosebumps down Wulf's back.

He sniffed the contents of the bottle and to his great surprise he recognized the delicately sweet smell of blue mountain flowers, an ingredient for cheap healing potions. The warrior downed the contests and felt the tingling of magic, across his face and side.

He did not understand what was going on, but it appeared somebody wanted his hide intact.

"Clean yourself up", the Silver Hand ordered. "You cannot go back like this. Return when you're done and we will talk." With those words he left and his underling pointed Wulf to the left side of the cavern.

As far as Wulf could see the cave had three rooms, divided by wooden planks. The biggest space was the one in front where the campfire burned and where he had woken up. There, most of the outlaws also slept, judging by the furs covering the floor, whilst the leader and Nelkir had disappeared into a room on the right.

Wulfryk entered some sort of storage chamber and found two buckets of lukewarm water and a small basin, soap, a comb and scissors. Nothing he could use as a weapon unless he wanted to use the scissors to cut off the bandits' pinky fingers. Somebody had even laid out his clothes for him to change into. How considerate.

Wulf washed and ran the comb through his beard and trimmed it to its appropriate length. He took an age to comb out the snarls in his hair, but his captors did not seem to mind. Nobody told him to hurry up.

The bruises on his side had disappeared and his face, still tender, no longer felt hot and swollen to the touch. He felt better once clean, even if he was going to burn all of the rags when he was back in Whiterun.

The warrior returned to the main hall and Mutt informed his boss.

"You wanted to talk?", Wulf asked the Silver Hand who was sitting at a tiny table and even offered him a seat. This whole meeting was strangely civil and unemotional.

The redhead nodded. "It is not my intention to harm you or the boy", he explained. "But I am willing to trade, though I grow impatient."

'How generous of you', Wulf thought but did not say so. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "Just wait", he told the other Nord. "I have it from a reliable source Balgruuf is going to put up a reward. You'll just say you were travelling when you stumbled over the boy and he'll be too relieved to ask more questions."

"I have no interest in either of you", the bandit responded, bored. "My boys will welcome the gold, but _I_ want the relic."

It was not the answer Wulf had been expecting. He blinked, confused. "What relic?"

"The boy will tell you all you need to know", the Silver Hand replied impatiently. "You get me the relic and I will let him go, unharmed. We have eyes in Whiterun. Do not talk to anybody of this, don't go informing the Companions or the Jarl. You have until midday tomorrow, Wolf." His lips twisted with wry amusement, the first flicker of emotion he showed, gone as quickly as it had come.

Strange as it seemed the gesture almost made him more human. There was something profoundly wrong with the guy, Wulfryk decided. It showed in his stiff, jerky movements, his wide-eyed, unblinking stare and the monotonous drawl.

Additionally, his plan had one big flaw. "I _am_ a Thane of the city and a Companion", Wulf pointed out, not in the mood for any games. The guy obviously knew who he was, had chosen his victim carefully, curse him. "Somebody might want to talk to me", the warrior said and asked, "What do I do then?"

"Buy a coffin", the bandit suggested and got up, calling for one of his friends.

Wulf sat down to talk with the boy when he was led in. The watchful bandit's knife never wavered from the child's throat. It wasn't to keep Nelkir in check, either. These people weren't taking any chances.

The boy had been crying again, Wulf could see. He did not blame the boy. He was, in the end, just a kid who had done a dumb thing and was paying for it thousandfold.

"Please, sir", the boy sniffed. "I never meant to!" He did not explain what, but went on, a waterfall of words and sobs.

"Put that away", Wulf turned on the bandit keeping a hold on the child. If he only lowered the knife, stepped back... "Don't you see you're making him hysteric?!"

But the man only snorted, his hold tightening on Nelkir's shoulder, until the boy cried out in pain.

A few moments passed in silence until the Jarl's son looked up again. "Please, help me."

"I'll do my best", Wulf assured him and hoped he sounded convincing and confident. Children made him uncomfortable, weeping ones twice so, and he had no idea where to begin so came straight to the point. The faster he got moving, the sooner the boy would be out of here.

"So, what's this relic of yours?" The topic seemed to help Nelkir calm down, thank the Divines.

"It is a magic weapon", Nelkir whispered. He told the Nord everything, from when he had stumbled over it to where Wulf could find it, in the cellars of Dragonsreach.

"What kind of weapon?", Wulf enquired after he was done, already weary.

"A sword, I think", the boy replied uncertainly. "With magic."

"How do you know all this?"

Nelkir's eyes went wide with shock and something that wasn't entirely sane. "She told me", he whispered.

"Who is 'she'?", Wulf wanted to know.

"You will understand when you meet her", the boy said, and stared at a place above Wulf's head, dreamlike. They took him away after that, humming, and with a vacant gaze.

The redheaded Silver Hand came to see his prisoner off.

"You fuck me over after this is done, and I will burn you alive", Wulf promised. He conjured up a spark, not enough to make the guard nervous, but to show he meant business.

"I know", the bandit replied dispassionately, as if indifferent to his fate. "You'll get the boy", he said, "And there won't be a hair missing from his head. Last thing I want is something going not to plan."

Wulfryk had only one question left. "How did you know where I would be, anyway?", he enquired. He had not planned ahead, had not told anyone which route he was taking and not even several units of Skald's soldiers had been able to find and ambush him.

The man blinked slowly and did not answer.

Wulf wanted to punch him in that vacant face. "Let me guess: your imaginary friend told you?"

The bandit was every bit as apathetic as he had been before. "Don't make fun of the Lady", he cautioned softly and without emotion.

Good to know the Jarl's kid and the thug shared that particular brand of crazy.

Wulf was about to say so, when the redhead held something out, the motion nearly mechanical. "This is yours, I believe."

It was Wulf's knife, the same one he had been given as a gift nine-and-ten years ago and that he never parted with. The bandit's smile was unwavering, as if he dared the man before him to use it on him and forfeit the captive boy's name.

Wulf would have liked nothing more than to ram it into the socket of one of the maniac's eyes.

He took the knife instead and returned it to its rightful place at the small of his back, fastening the belt with a more forceful yank than necessary.

The bandit's broad grin resembled a grimace. Wulf did not waste threats on a madman. He would be back for the bastard.

 oooo

Brand was guarding the entrance and saw Wulf outside where a severed head was rotting atop a spear, flies swarming the milky eyes. The bandit looked away nervously. He walked in a safe distance behind the warrior who had once had him at his mercy. What a wonderful way for life to get back at him, Wulf thought.

He _could_ slit the other man's throat and blow the rest of the bandits up. But there was no way he could do it with no one noticing. Then they would kill the boy and blame it on him – or he would be left with Nelkir's corpse and Wulf doubted strongly it would be any consolation for Balgruuf that he managed to get rid of all of the kidnappers.

Just when one Jarl was already all geared up to have Wulfryk's head on a spike, he did not need another out for his blood. He needed Balgruuf on his side, especially to put an end to Skald's accusations. His kid might be a rude, spoiled brat and Wulf hoped his father's housecal would tan his hide with a leather belt once all this was over, but the boy was also terrified. Scared and alone, tricked and looking up to the warrior as a saviour.

Wulf's horse was tied to a post in front of the cave's entrance, saddled up and ready to go. The bastards had known they had him backed into a corner. His pack was there too and a rudimentary search revealed that nothing was missing. Brand tossed Wulf's sword at the warrior who wondered how much that relic must be worth for a pack of robbers to refuse to acquire a weapon of Eorlund's make. A lot, apparently.

The Nord mounted up without delay and turned his horse in the direction of Whiterun without a backwards glance.

He needed a plan to get into Dragonsreach.

 oooo

Evening was falling by the time Wulf walked through Whiterun's gates. He had left his horse outside, saddled and ready to go, and pulled up his hood. The gates would close soon, and there was a throng of people jostling to get inside the city before nightfall. Wulf joined the masses and slipped past, with none of the guards suspecting that their Thane had returned. Unfortunately, that was the easiest part.

Wulf hunkered down on a bench next to the wall where he conveniently could observe Jorrvaskr and the keep and unwrapped his dinner. Since they did not want him talking to anybody or setting foot in one of the inns, the bandits had provided him with enough food to last for two days, three if he ate sparingly. How bloody considerate of them. But bread was bread no matter where it came from and Wulfryk was hungry enough not to be picky. He chewed slowly and considered his options.

When darkness fell the warrior rose, drew his cloak tighter around himself and slowly walked in the direction of the Cloud District. He had not seen as much as a single lit candle in the Companions' mead hall which was well as the passage from the Underforge would serve as his escape route. Hopefully, he would not run into any of his shield-siblings. Ria and Athis had said that everybody who could be spared would be out looking for the Jarl's boy.

They would not find him, of that Wulf was sure.

The Nord took the steps that led to Jorrvaskr and then some more, up to the Skyforge. The legendary forge never went cold, not when Eorlund was not working it and not in the coldest of winters. Wulf didn't spate any thoughts to marvel on it.

He knew of only one way into the Jarl's keep other than the front entrance that was closed at this hour for regular visits and too well guarded to attempt any break-ins. Wulf had debated just walking in and asking a guard to wake the Jarl and to spill the whole truth. He had been taken down by the same outlaws who had kidnapped his son and they would release him if he brought them some sword hidden in the cellar.

Surely an heirloom was worth less than Nelkir's life?

But what if Balgruuf refused to believe him? What if Skald's men already had talked to him and the Jarl just thought that Wulf was robbing him?

There was one other thing. Wulf did not know who that Silver Hand contact was. It could be one of the guards, it could be the old man sitting on a bench beneath the Gildergreen and smoking a pipe or the woman hanging up laundry by the light of a lamp.

It was even possible there was no one watching him. That the Silver Hand had made that up to scare him into compliance. It did not matter. Wulf could not _afford_ to gamble with Nelkir's life. If he took the front doors it might send the wrong kind of message. And then Wulf would have to explain to Balgruuf why he endangered his son, in the best case.

After some more thought Wulf abandoned the idea. Too much could go wrong that way. Balgruuf might not trust him and persist on having his soldiers handle the matter and any way Wulf turned the outcome, he did not see how it could go well. No, he'd steal the relic the old-fashioned way and explain everything afterwards. If Nelkir didn't vouch for him, Wulf was personally going to kill the blighter.

Much like the front doors, climbing the porch was out of question. Much too conspicuous and time-consuming, even if he actually had an idea how to scale the overhanging balcony. The drop was a rather prominent turn-off as well.

That left one other way in; through the dungeons. Wulf knew they led into Dragonsreach because Lydia had mentioned it a couple of times; never in the context of how to best break into the Jarl's keep, but as a member of the guard she had been stationed there often enough.

It would be difficult. Though he meant to enter the prison, Wulf did not want to end up there. His best hope was that there would be fewer guards than usual since he highly doubted it would be left entirely unguarded.

The warrior cursed and ran his hands through his hair. He tied it together with a leather band so it would not get in his eyes and descended the stairs, sticking to the shadows. Wulf tried Jorrvaskr's back door and found it unlocked. He stole inside on tiptoe, but the place was quiet enough for him to know that if anybody was there, they were below, in the underground rooms.

Wulfryk did not have to search for what he had come here for. He grabbed an almost empty bottle of mead off the table and pocketed it, as well as a coat that somebody had negligently slung over the back of a chair. No need to soil his own. The Nord mumbled an apology to its owner and promised he's buy them a new one once this was over.

He was out of Jorrvaskr again after half a minute. No need to make his potential watcher nervous.

Wulf climbed the cliff behind the Skyforge until he was almost level with the keep. The rocks were rounded and slick and provided few handholds and the stonework on top crumbling. The Nord cursed every time he grabbed a loose stone, almost dropping it atop his head and more so when he cut open the side of his hand. He arrived on top bathed in sweat and with his arms shaking. He used to love climbing walls as a kid, but then he had not been wearing a full set of armour. Still, it was less strenuous than explaining to the soldiers why he was taking a stroll over the palace grounds at this hour.

From his hiding place Wulf could see the light of the lit braziers and the shapes of the soldiers watching the bridge and double doors. Four men. He would have had to pass them had he not taken the unconventional way. Wulfryk allowed himself a brief pause for his breath to grow steady again, but not long enough to cool down. Then, he exchanged his cloak for the other one, and poured the dregs of the mead over it.

A drunk accidentally stumbling where he was not supposed to be was less likely to raise suspicions and alert any soldiers to a potential threat.

Wulf left his hiding place and approached the lone guard on duty with a silly smile and a slightly unsteady gait. "Hey there, handsome."

"You should not be here, citizen", the man replied in a bored voice and moved to intercept him, one hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes went wide though when Wulf came closer, and he straightened. "Thane! I'm sorry, I did not recognize you. Is there something you need?" He sounded about as uncomfortable as Wulf felt.

"Have you seen Signy?" Wulfryk remembered Lydia's guard friend from the celebration in Jorrvaskr. He felt bad for dragging her name into this, but he had not come up with anything better. "She told me she was on duty until midnight. We wanted to plan a surprise for my housecarl." He pretended to take a swallow from the bottle.

He needed to get closer to the man. It had probably been unnecessary for him to pretend being drunk. The other man's guard was down seeing as he was talking to one of Whiterun's more honourable citizens. But, it made things easier.

"Thane?" In the light of the torch the soldier's face was hard to read, but he sounded confused. "She has left to find the Jarl's son."

Wulf slapped his forehead like a man just realizing he had made a stupid mistake, exaggerating the movement. "Of course! I- I'm sorry to have bothered you", the warrior slurred his apology. He made as if to leave, but turned back to the soldier. "Is he really gone? Gods, how is the Jarl taking it?" Wulfryk lowered his voice and let some concern seep into it, and wobbled precariously from the spin.

Wulf felt like the worst kind of shit when he let himself totter against the soldier. The guard forgot to reply to the question, but cursed and moved to support Wulfryk. He could not have it said that he let the Thane fall flat on his face on his watch.

Wulf snuck his arm across the guard's throat and used his other for leverage to tighten his grip. Before the other man knew what had happened he was jerking and kicking for his life as Wulf dragged him down where he could use his weight to pin him against the ground and where the earth swallowed the sound of the soldier's heels drumming against it.

"I'm sorry", Wulf told the man who was clawing his forearms to ribbons, too far gone to attempt to land a proper hit – damn, he should have thought to bring bracers or gloves – and when he saw the vein at the side of his victim's neck stand out, he pinched it hard enough to interrupt the blood flow, all the while counting the seconds in his head. When the guard finally went limp in his grasp, he let go. The last thing Wulf wanted was to kill the unfortunate sod.

The entrance to the dungeons was locked and a very brief search revealed the guard did not have the key, but Wulf managed to coax open the lock without any difficulties. A shame to have a double-barred pin lock on the keep.

Maybe he should inform the Jarl to employ a proper locksmith? Nah, Wulfryk guessed that there was no one, apart from himself, of course, who actually wanted to break _in_ into a prison. Usually it was the other way around.

Wulf opened the door and peeked through, but he could not see or hear anything. A speck of magical light showed that the dungeon was empty, of both prisoners and guards. The latter most likely because of the lack of the former. At last, a shred of luck. The warrior left the torch burning to give off the illusion that everything was alright and dragged the unconscious soldier inside, gagged him and bound him to the bars. He also applied some healing magic to the man's throat to keep it from bruising up and the guard from suffocating as a result.

Last, Wulf tossed the mead-splattered coat over the man to make him look like a curled up, sleeping prisoner at first glance.

He did not know where exactly the corridor would lead him, so he moved cautiously along the isle, cells to his left and right until he arrived at the door. Somebody coughed at the other side of it.

This would be tricky. Sending up a prayer to Rajhin for the door to be unlocked, Wulf pulled it open and stepped through it in one swift motion. The guard on duty turned immediately. "Wha-"

Wulf slammed the edge of his hand into the side of the guard's neck. She broke down, and he caught her across the middle and pulled her through the door before putting her out cold with a punch to the back of her head. The second soldier joined the first one, a couple of cells further away.

Wulfryk sneaked back, and up the stairs. He was surprised to find out that he emerged in the main hall. To his left stood the long dining tables, he could even catch a glimpse of the Jarl's throne. The slow regular tread of a soldier on patrol alerted the warrior that there were more guards nearby. The Nord flatted himself against the wall, waited until the footsteps faded, signaling that the soldier was further away before he crept forward.

To his right there were the kitchens with a fire burning low in the massive hearth. Wulf slipped inside, after a brief glimpse to convince himself he was not going to run into the cook. But no, everything was deserted, and the lone guard on patrol as unhurried as he had been before.

He had no time to lose.

Another set of stairs was leading down at the back of the room and Wulf tiptoed into the cellar, feeling his way in the dark and stepping close to the wall. Further down he did not want to bother, the steps naked stone, no longer covered by wooden boards. An unlocked and thankfully unguarded door later and he could breathe easier, knowing he was in the right place.

These had to be the storage rooms and servant's quarters.

On the right side there was a door, and with no better lead Wulf tried it first. He caught a glimpse of a bed and a small figure atop it, and hurriedly closed the door again.

Balgruuf's little blighters had to sleep in the cellar!?

Wulf shook his head. This wasn't right, but it was none of his business. He had a relic to find. Nelkir had never seen it since it was behind a closed door, but he had described the corridor. It took the warrior a while to find the right one. How much time had passed since he had taken out the first guard was difficult to estimate, but so far things seemed calm upstairs. Then again Wulf wasn't sure he would hear any disturbances this far below the keep.

Like much of the cellars the wing he found himself in was abandoned. Moldy straw covered the floor along with discarded furniture, barrels and sacks, everything covered in a thick layer of dust, disturbed only by small footprints. Nelkir had come here more than once, apparently. Wulf looked around as he walked on, brushing aside cobwebs.

Shelves, some bolted to the walls, some merely leaning against them, were cluttered with all manners of junk. Wulf picked up a silver plate at random and brushed over it with his sleeve. He lent some more energy to his light, making it shine brighter and inspected the damage done to his face. Most of the cuts were scabbed over and the swelling had gone away with the healing potion, as well as the toothache.

He smiled and saw that the lower part and corner of his front tooth had broken off, forming an uneven ridge. It felt far worse than it actually looked, he decided with a feeling of immense relief. His looks were the smallest of Wulf's problem, but he felt better nonetheless. The warrior tossed away the plate, forgetting himself for a heartbeat and winced at the resounding clamor.

"Ssshhh!", Wulf hissed sharply at the reckless piece of dinnerware.

When it stopped spinning on the floor and he quit glowering at it, Wulf looked up to find himself at the end of the corridor. There was the turn, with the ugly painting the Jarl's son had described on the opposite wall – and the doors!

Wulfryk pulled out his roll of tools from the breast pocket where he always kept them and knelt to inspect the lock. It was of an old design, nothing he had not seen as before. This was going to be easy as pie. He braced one arm against the wood and reached out with the other and jerked back violently when he felt the hairs on his arm rise.

Nelkir had mentioned that only his father and the court wizard had the key, but Wulf was confident in his ability to jiggle most locks. He had never taking into account a magical lock though.

"Shor's Breath and Bones!"

Wulf could not go back to search Balgruuf or Farengar for the key. At some time one of the guards were bound to notice that their buddy was missing. Then, all hell would break loose. Although he was sure he would find his way quicker when walking the dark passages for a second time, he did not want to waste any more time. He straightened, with his hands on his hips and glared at the doors. They were made of two wings, reinforced at the top and bottom, with old carvings and paint that had almost entirely flaked off. The lock held them closed.

The Nord pulled his knife and scratched at the wood. It came away in slivers, spongy to the feel. Rotten. The cold and damp must not become it very well. Wulf grinned.

The lock was magical, yes. The doors not so much. The warrior backed up a few steps.

It took three kicks before the wood around the lock splintered and broke out and the magical device cluttered uselessly to the ground. Wulf paused for a few seconds to see if the noise had stirred up some sort of commotion, it the quiet of the underground the only sounds he could make out were that of mice scurrying and his own breathing. He had to be out of hearing range.

Good. He still had a relic to find.

That last task proved to be easier than he had anticipated. As soon as Wulf entered the room his eyes were drawn to the rack upon which a sword was laid out as if on display in a shop. This had to be it!

The blade was shaped like an Akaviri Dai-Katana. Wulf had seen similar, but this one appeared to be of superior make. The warrior sighed. He loved singly-edged blades that curved slightly. There was no reason to it, as a sword was only ever as good as the one who wielded it, and though he could wield any common northern sword, he never felt as confident with it.

Wulf had an idea then. He would take the sword and sneak into Balgruuf's private quarters and inform him of what was going on without anybody from the outside any wiser. Then he'd get out again as fast as possible and complete the deal. High on the feeling of success, he grinned and grabbed the sword, testing his two-handed grip on the hilt.

It was warm, as if it had been lying in the sun just a moment ago, and it seemed to tremble at his touch, almost like it had been waiting for him to find it all this time. It fit the palm of his hand as if it had been moulded to it. Too bad he already had-

Wulf was distracted by the carvings on its flat side, the language one he did not recognize and the edge that was not marred by even a flick of rust. The black ebony ore curling like smoke, a shadow even in the dark,

The sword was...perfection.

It...was... _his_.

 

xxxx

 

_He had come to her. Her Champion._

_She had always known he would, for no mortal could resist the allure of power, and least of all hers. It had taken long enough, each life a string in the net she had woven around the one who would lead her to glory in this forsaken corner of the mortal realm. One tweak on a string and the whole web trembled, cautiously, almost delicately for she did not want to undo her creation._

_Though she was eternal, she was not patient._

_It all had begun the day the Jarl had found her artefact, crafted over ages uncountable and infused with its creator's spirit. He might have it hidden away in the cellars where few others wandered and behind locked doors, but he did not suspect that a simple touch was all it took for her to have a hold over him._

_A Jarl was an influential man, a ruler amongst lesser mortals. But he was also possessed of a strong will and as fun as it would be to watch his sanity unravel, at the time she had felt that change was coming to Mundus. A ripple was shaking the foundations of the world she had her eyes on, like an earthquake would its surface._

_Something had caused it._

_Power. It was at the core of all things; raw and ancient and drawing closer._

_So, she had bidden her time._

_The Jarl had lost himself in work, had put his heart and soul into service in an attempt to fulfil his unquenchable desire to bring wealth and safety to his people. He wanted to be loved by his subjects, the need born of his bitter childhood, his inability to please his father, to ever earn a few words in praise. The Jarl succeeded, but as time wore on he succumbed to his greed for gold and luxury, and his own family was forgotten._

_Eventually the child, neglected and angry, had been drawn by her blade's soft keening, the whispered promise of an end to the loneliness, and of retaliation._

_A mortal child was hardly fit to be a champion for a Prince, but it was an ideal servant; easy to influence and unquestioning once it had been convinced, weak but quick to acquire and to dispose of._

_Her influence increased._

_Soon she could sway others and laughed as she watched the wretched lives of the mortals take a turn for the worse. She could not indulge herself to her heart's content though, for the city had already been claimed by another._

_Pluck a string and withdraw, such had been her game until now and by the time Hircine came sniffing, her presence was no longer detectable. Let the dog chase its own tail._

_His pets she could not touch at first, not directly, but that was no reason to become discouraged. She would find a way to weaken her rival's hold over them, slipping into the cracks and crevices where he did not hold sway. She was not a force – she was the softest of whispers, a stray thought, the spark of jealousy that flared up in the most unfortunate time or a gentle push to tip the scale – and her greatest asset was her voice._

_Unlike his idiot brother, the other young wolf was easily garnered. Suspicious by nature it barely took any coaxing at all to drive his mistrust to its peak. There was pain from a loss that had happened during his younger years and the drive to prove himself, perfectionism and, most interesting to her, envy. Well suppressed until now, it escalated in the meeting with her chosen. So many longings. For adventure in a faraway country, for the freedom to travel and to lay aside obligations, to escape duty and indulge in the pleasures of live._

_All of which he could not do, but saw the other live._

_Then the worst thing possible happened; they left her. And when they returned far too much of her work had been undone. She could not allow that to happen again. Thriving on the angry thrill of a fight and no small amount of attraction, a spark of lust was kindled. It worked out flawlessly, the spark kindling a fire and she had withdrawn then, allowing things to play out on their own._

_The other wolves needed her attention. They had taken long to fall under her spell, but she eventually coerced them into betraying their leader. And what a glorious day it had been!_

_That, and a thousand other betrayals she had entertained herself with until the day of her triumph would come to pass . The jealous worker who poisoned his master's mead, the Captain who was a spy, the lose tongue who betrayed the traitor hiding in the inn, the thoughtless cruelty of a child, the wife who cuckolded her husband._

_It amused her whilst she awaited the arrival of her champion. There were like made for each other. She coveted lies, murder, sex and secrets. He had each of those in abundance._

_Except that when finally within her grasp, he proved almost completely impervious to her manipulations. Instead she had to watch him fall into Hircine's paws. Such waste! Just for one moment when his control slipped briefly before he shook her off again, she almost had him kill Hircine's lapdog. But he had gotten away and she had been left to her rage as her grasp slipped, her plans shattered._

_Her retaliation had come swiftly. A nudge to have the whelp chase away his friend in a fit of rage and to drive his bitch after her friend instead of her lover._

_Then there had been the sweetness of screams and in the other young wolf's mind she finally found a foothold. She had allowed to indulge herself in the art of torture the mortal performed, though such crude violence was not her way._

_Taking over the group that called itself the Silver Hand had been one of her more brilliant moves. They were thriving under her patronage, even though the leader had to die. She was focused on hunting Hircine's pets and only that, not receptive to the Prince's persuasion._

_Her second though...he had promise. She had sent him back to the city to kill the Harbinger and rescued him when the dogs turned the fight in their favour, chuckling at the betrayal of his friends. His part had been to ensure that the position of Harbinger passed on to the whelp who was already well under her sway. Her servant had performed well and she decided he might yet be of use._

_It was time to have her servants meet._

_That had been harder to arrange than she had expected, but after a few failed attempts the boy-child passed on all that he knew about the relic to someone in the position to act._

_Soon, she would need neither of them._

_From the north, the Drabonborn was drawing close. Yes, she now had a name to put to the power she had sensed earlier._

_She was so close to success. He was coming, ever closer, until he was right there. Her chosen one needed only to touch-_

_The Prince that called itself Mephala laughed, and through her relic she spoke._

"Come, my child. We are bound now, you and I. Together, my Champion, we shall accomplish great, terrible deeds."


	39. BTS

Wulf awoke to the fading echo of a woman's laughter.

He blinked open his eyes slowly, rubbing at them with his sleeve. It was warm where he was lying and his bed was soft, if a bit scratchy. The man stretched and sneezed when the action sent up a cloud of dust. Alright, maybe it was not quite as comfortable as he had first believed. When Wulf's focus returned he saw wooden walls and bales of hay and a window, the shutters wide open. For a strange moment he thought he had climbed through it.

The Nord sat up and rolled his neck and shoulders and a few vertebrae popped. He watched dust motes dance in the ray of sunlight and took stock of his surroundings. He was in a barn, on the first story and lying atop a bed made of loose hay.

Wulf suppressed another sneeze and hoped it had not been fresh hay. He had heard stories of people who had gone to sleep atop such and never woken up again.

He had though, and so he guessed it did not matter much anymore, and let himself sink back onto his elbows, letting the sunlight caress his face. Below, and not far away, a cock crowed. Was it morning already?

With that thought another one crept up on him, unbidden. Where was he, anyway, and how had he gotten here?

A look out of the window did not reveal much; plains and fields and hey, that was _his_ horse in the paddock next to the little river. Did he live here?

Wulf froze, all languidness from before gone. The warrior felt the cold fingers of doubt creep up his spine. He should know, right? He did not remember this place, nor why he was here. The memories were there, skirting the edge of his mind, closing in like shadows around a cone of light, but flittering away again as he grasped for them.

A look around revealed his pack and cloak, half-buried under hay, and his sword. Only it wasn't because he had his Skyforge Steel-

_What in Oblivion was going on!?_

Wulf wasn't supposed to be here! Divines, he had robbed the Jarl and a homicidal maniac was holding the man's son and Wulf had the gods-damned relic and no recollection of what had happened past his taking the blade off its rack. How long had he been gone? And what in the name of all the Aedra and Daedra had happened for him to get here in first place? Where was 'here', anyway?

He needed to get back. Wulf leaned out of the window to see that the sun was nearing the horizon, but the light was wrong, grey and growing darker. Not dawn then.

Wulf felt a deadly calm settle over him. He had to get back as fast as possible, but first he needed to get out of the barn, and then to find out where he was. It would do him no good to storm off in the wrong direction.

He did not know what had happened, what foul spell had taken hold of him, but he strongly suspected it had something to do with the _relic,_ which probably was more than some family heirloom of Balgruuf's. Wulf kept the sword wrapped in cloth and resisted the urge to touch it, to have another look at its flawless, black design. The bloody thing possessed some old magic that could take hold of the mind, and damn, if that didn't explain the boy's and Silver Hand's strange behaviour.

He should have suspected it, but he could not detect the slightest trace of energy about it, not in Balgruuf's cellar, not now that he knew it was a magical item. As far as he was concerned, he felt as much from it as he did from the rusty pitchfork in the corner. It wasn't right. Magical or enchanted objects always leaked power if you knew what to look for, even those of the Ayleids did and they had been unmatched masters of the arcane and of craftsmanship.

He wanted to get rid of the thing as fast as possible.

Wulf did not allow himself to think about Nelkir, the boy's frightened gaze, his tear-streaked face. He still had time. _Had to._

Wulfryk slung his pack over his shoulder and took both swords under his arm and climbed down the ladder, almost falling through when he did not notice that one rung was missing. He pulled himself up again and cussed, but kept going and when he reached the ground he tried to push open the large barn doors.

They gave in half an inch before catching on the lock. So he had climbed in through the window after all. Well, he was in no mood to kick in another door, least of all one that looked like it might be solid enough to withstand the attack and belonged to some innocent farmer, so it looked like he was going to have to climb out again.

_Bollocks!_

Wulf grit his teeth with annoyance at the loss of precious time and when the window proved too small for him to fit through with his pack on and the way down too difficult to manage it whilst carrying his weapons. In the end the warrior just pulled up the ladder and lowered it out of the window, leaning it against the sill and descending after he had thrown out his belongings, all except for his sword that he kept slung over one shoulder.

He briefly wondered how he had ended up in the barn in first place and why the farmers were not surprised to find an unfamiliar horse grazing in one of the enclosures. The warrior cautiously looked around, but everything was calm, no people were in sight, no dogs barked as he slowly walked over the property.

Only a few specked cattle were lying in the grass and watching the Nord with liquid, dark eyes and little interest, their wet mouths chewing without pause. Nobody seemed to be home.

Wulfryk dropped all caution and jogged over to the paddock fence and ducked under the timber, grabbing his saddle and the bags that hung over it. His horse came closer to nose at his elbow, recognizing its rider and he quickly had it saddled and was leading the black out of the enclosure by the reins and not bothering with closing it again. Wulf mounted up from a nearby stump and directed his horse at a jog towards the small house to his right.

A few horned heads turning to follow their movement, but that was all. The quiet of the abandoned farm was almost too much to bear, and the desperate need to get going hung in the air despite it being the picture of peacefulness.

Fowl pecked through a nearby pile of dung, clucking softly, but the house was dark and had a deserted look to it, the windows shuttered closed. But they were free of cobwebs and a few swallows fluttered to and from their nesting places under the thatched roof. A well-groomed shrub of dog rose was the only plant climbing the wooden frame next to the wall and the livestock looked healthy and looked-after.

Maybe it was market day in the city and the residents had left to sell their wares? Wulf he did not know what day it was, but that was hardly anything new, his sense of time messed up since he had left High Hrothgar.

The Nord did, however, recognize the sign that hung over the door with the crossed hammer and sword burned into the wooden disk, declaring the farmer's belonging to a clan.

These were Battle-Born lands and he was about a day away from Whiterun. He had been here before, when they had searched for the Jarl's boy when he had disappeared for the first time. That's why it looked familiar. And maybe it was why he had returned here.

Wulf turned his horse around and set a jog that he knew the black could hold through several hours without growing tired. Something inside him screamed to go faster, but he clamped down on it, kept his white-knuckled grip on the reins and his emotions at bay.

He found it surprisingly easy to function.

The journey back took longer than anticipated, with the dark preventing him to go too fast and though he might try to deny it, he had to put in a few hours' worth of sleep. So it was almost midday by the time Wulf passed Whiterun, and in front of the gates he saw a larger group of soldiers arguing with the Whiterun guards. They bore the white star of Dawnstar stitched on their brigantines and painted on their shields. Their eyes were on Whiterun, thankfully, and not at the lone wanderer.

Three hours later Wulf found the hiding place of the bandits and held up the stolen sword when some of the outlaws moved in with their own weapons drawn.

"You're late", their redheaded leader greeted Wulfryk with disdain, but he signalled the others to stand down. "But I see you brought the relic." He pushed of the wall and walked towards the entrance of the cave. "Very good. Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Wulf followed, tired, worn out and wanting nothing more that for this nightmare that had begun somewhere in Dawnstar, to end. He stopped as soon as he had stepped into the cool shade of the cave's broad mouth. Brand was lying in the corner, trussed up. Somebody had taken fists to the bandit, his face bruised and nose broken with blood crusting on his upper lip.

"Where's the boy?", Wulf asked, refusing to take a step further. "Bring him out." When one of the bandits harboured thoughts of getting uppity he lit a ball of fire in his shield-hand and the outlaws scattered.

Their leader did not answer.

"I got your fucking sword", Wulf said evenly, holding on to the last shreds of his self-control, "I am here, now WHERE IS THE BOY!?", he bellowed, the echo magnifying his words, throwing them back at him.

"We have sent his remains back to his father", the Silver Hand drawled, bored. Along with something of yours."

"You-" It wasn't often that Wulf lacked the proper words to curse another, but this was one of those rare occasions.

"Didn't think we were serious, did you?", the Silver Hand asked with a quirk of his mouth. "Just like your friend here." He pointed at the bound bandit who glared at them both and shouted something intelligible around the gag in his mouth. "Tried to steal away with the kid in the night, and then began whining he wasn't killing no children." The psycho turned to Wulf, grinning, and drew his weapon. "You can watch him die before you take your turn."

"Men! Get them! Now!"

Wulf reacted faster than the Silver Hand and threw himself to the side, his instinct taking him by surprise as much at the unexpected attack. He felt the heat of fire, heard a scream cut off abruptly and jarred his already bruised ribs when he landed, rolling up to his feet again and looking around wildly. Soldiers had appeared, men and women in Whiterun's yellow and the bandits were storming out of their cave upon realizing they were under attack.

The Nord crouched low, forgotten amongst the chaos for the moment and caught the delicious smell of roasted meat on his next breath. His stomach rumbled. He had not had a hot meal in ages.

The bandit leader he had been talking to a heartbeat before was a blistered, smoking corpse, milky eyes running down his burnt cheeks.

 _Fuck_. That could have been him.

Wulf caught sight of Balgruuf's housecarl, Irileth, in the thick of the fighting, shouting orders to her guards. The Dunmer was unmistakable with her dark skin and deep red hair and he ducked back inside the cave; now empty of the outlaws it probably was the safest place for him to be in. All except for one, that was.

Brand was grunting where he was lying, face red with exertion from his attempts to break fee of his bonds. As far as Wulf saw, they were unsuccessful although he had managed to displace his gag.

From outside Wulf could hear the clash of weapons and the screams of warriors on both sides dying, interrupted by the occasional shouts of 'For the Jarl!' or 'Sovngarde!' The guard had the advantage of the surprise and the numbers, but the bandits fought with the ferocity of cornered rats. The two forces appeared to be evenly matched for the moment.

Wulf took all of this in a heartbeat and did not stay to watch the outcome. He did not join the battle either, for on whose side would he fight anyway? Both wanted his head. His horse was outside, but to sneak through the skirmish was likely to earn him a sword through the back. At least he had enough North pride in him that most of his scars were on the front.

No, it was time to forge his own allegiance and to test that old saying about one's enemy's enemy.

Brand quit his futile struggling when Wulf knelt down next to him, pulling his knife. The bandit glowered darkly at the weapon, the look replaced by one of surprise when Wulfryk used it to cut through the ropes binding his hands, and finally, understanding.

Wulf stood and reached down to help the bandit to his feet and after only a split second of hesitation the other Nord took it with a nod. Something passed between them, unspoken but acknowledged in that brief moment and born not out of trust but necessity. They were better off watching each other's back than on their own.

"The Jarl's son-", Wulf asked, urgently, because he still had the faintest hope that this was a ruse and the kid was still somewhere in the cave, hidden away.

"'e's dead", Brand answered thickly through his broken nose and spat on the ground. "Saw 'em do it. We was s'pposed to ransom 'im even if ya didn't come back. _Skitta_! "

Wulf believed he was faking none of the revulsion; after all his own friends had been about to execute him for defending the kid and trying to free him. Wulfryk was chalking it up to the other man's plus points, even if he had probably hoped to get rich by collecting the reward all by himself.

As messed up as this entire situation was, they were each other's best chance and questions and worries were best left until Wulf was sure he would live to see another sunrise.

He handed the other man his own Skyforge Steel sword and unsheathed the ebony blade from Balgruuf's cellar. It seemed to hum when it came into contact with his palm, as if it was a live thing awaking from slumber. Time to feed it some blood.

Wulfryk carefully approached the cave's entrance, squinting his eyes against the light. He had his shield in his left while next to him Brand tested his grip on the greatknife. The bandit appeared to be in surprisingly good shape despite the beating he had received.

Too many of the outlaws were still standing while the soldiers appeared to have lost their momentum and were even falling back. Wulf intended to rectify that.

He pointed at the cluster of three men on the left and Brand nodded eagerly. Maybe one of them had busted his face.

The two Nords stormed out side by side and took their targets by surprise, killing the first two almost instantly. The third sprouted a sword through his neck when he turned away from the soldier, distracted by the new threat.

The guards did not appear thankful for the help, however, and they moved against Wulf and Brand, their vigour renewed.

Wulf did not know if they had tracked him or if he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – _again_ – but he was not becoming collateral damage, and he most certainly was not letting them take him alive, like Irileth demanded they do. The housecarl was hard-pressed against two attackers, or she surely would have faced him herself.

Brand apparently shared his companion's opinion, and he kicked the woman's legs from under her while Wulf took care of her friend. He was glad that he did not know the man he killed, that it was not Mikkjáll, or Lydia's plump but cheerful friend that suddenly clutched his stomach as he broke down, staring at his entrails hanging out in thick, rosy ropes as he screamed from shock and pain in equal measure. Wulf put his suffering to an end, severing his spine at the neck and moved on to the next opponent who ran at him – one of the Silver Hand's cronies this time.

He caught the other man's upper hand swing on his shield, felt the shock through the wood and metal and the bandit's hissed curse and pressed his advantage, kicking him in the shin and smashing the Nord's own sword against his head with his shield. The bandit howled, but his cries turned into a wet gurgle when Wulf's next strike severed half of his neck.

Wulf turned wildly, making sure that nobody was in his back and moved to help Brand who still was still engaged against the female soldier and at a disadvantage without a shield of his own. Wulfryk tripped her up and left her for the outlaw to finish.

He lost his shield in the skirmish against the next foe, when the man embedded an axe in the wood and wrenched it away. It left him without a weapon and as he swung the awkward club his axe had become, Wulf pivoted, stepping around him, and drove his elbow into his face, followed by the pommel of his sword. The Nord dropped like a bag of potatoes as something in his temple crunched, blood pouring from his shattered nose and split lips. Wulf had no time to pick his teeth out of his elbow, because the fighting was dying down and he had to assess the situation anew.

The last of the soldiers fell to one of the bandits, but Irileth hamstrung her from behind with one knife and before the woman's triumphant grin had left her face, slit her throat with the other.

Twenty corpses littered the glade, bandits and guards alike and the only three warriors left standing were Balgruuf's housecarl, Wulf and Brand.

Irileth's eyes, red as the blood splattered on her armour, turned to Wulf.

Whose attempts at explaining the whole situation fell on deaf ears. The Dark Elf advanced, daggers at the ready and Wulf cursed because his shield was still lying somewhere and he could not get it in time before she sprang at him with almost unnatural speed.

Two against one, it was a bad situation for her to find herself in and she had to be hoping she could take him out quickly to even out the odds. Wulf retreated hastily, giving ground easily, and out of the corners of his eyes he saw Brand advance, though he kept his eyes firmly locked on his opponent's, still pleading for her to listen to reason, and not only because it hopefully served to distract her.

Wulfryk believed the fight to be well and truly over when the other Nord reached them and charged at the Dunmer - until she reached out without looking back and a white-blue bolt hit Brand in the chest, the bandit convulsing as he went down.

The action cost her; the housecarl was bathed in sweat and staggered on the next step.

Wulf closed in then, a litany of curses going through his head. He had to keep her too busy to attempt any magic or he would get himself roasted as well, which was the only thing keeping him from breaking and running.

"Will you listen?", he panted, and when she fainted at his face and tried to get in low, bellowed "What is wrong with you!?"

She attempted to cast again, but her magic guttered out with his strike and it visibly unsettled her. Wulf kept pressing his advantage. He did not attempt to speak again, all his focus on getting the better of the housecarl. The first one to strike a blow almost always won the fight. He could not allow himself a misstep.

Not even the title of Dragonborn would protect him now; the Dunmer warrior did not believe in such 'Nord nonsense'.

She was older than him, but still in her prime and more experienced but he was stronger and had a bigger reach than her knives. Lithe and light on one's feet sounded well, but when faced with an opponent that outweighed you by a good seventy pounds it didn't even out the odds one bit. And Wulf could be fast, too. He had studied the Kawlith Khaj with the peoples who had invented the combat of empty hands and he had yet to meet an enemy quicker than a pouncing Khajiit.

The Nord recognized the round forms of her parries, not unlike those of the Whispering Fang. There were only so many ways she could deflect his blows, catching them on the end of the swing or avoiding contact entirely. He'd break her arms the first time she'd actually try to block them.

The housecarl was too experienced and probably accustomed to fighting with and against Nords to attempt any such a thing. But Wulf was not only Nord. He was an Imperial lowlife, thug, a scrapper and Renrijra Krin.

When he could not gain the upper hand in fair combat, he cheated and left honour to those with a wish of Sovngarde.

Irileth was not expecting for him to attack with magic; with her own resourced depleted she could not defend herself. Chugging fire at a Dunmer was a bad idea, but electricity did the trick, made her go rigid, jaw clenched and eyes bulging out of their sockets.

Even so she recovered with astonishing speed, her next attack a flurry of blows, strength and speed lent to her by desperation. Wulf sidestepped, disengaged, only to retaliate with a sweep that put her on the defensive for one heartbeat.

One bolt Wulf could risk, but two would wear him out too much.

They were both panting by now, their grips slick with sweat. Irileth's hair was plastered to her face, and so was Wulf's. Exhaustion slowed them down, what stamina they had gone along with their breath. Wulf had to put an end to this; before he became sloppy and the housecarl's skill took him down.

He put everything he had into his next attack, forcing her to hit back in order not to become unbalanced and when she came at him, blocked with both hands and let go of his sword with his right.

Wulf stepped right into her attack, felt the knife slice through his leather armour and sent a prayer up in thanks to Eorlund, because the blade slid harmlessly off his mail, and past.

Wulf moved to the left – Irileth's right – and caught her around the forearm, twisting the outstretched limb away until he felt the bones in the elbow snap and the knife fell from her grip. With his left he plunged the sword into the gap of her armour, right under the armpit until was embedded up to the hilt.

She swept at him with her left, weakly, but he had her blocked and emotionlessly watched the surprised expression turn to horror with the understanding dawning on her that she had lost, was going to die.

“You changed your hand”, Irileth sounded as if she was accusing him of trickery. She had spent too much time amongst Nords, apparently. The words were accompanied by a bubble of blood at the corner of her mouth. It burst and trickled down her chin.

Behind her, Brand was dragging himself through the dirt, and Wulf felt a spark of admiration for the bandit; that man was bloody tough.

Out of nowhere a smooth, amused voice of a woman crooned, "Excellent work, child."

Judging by the Dunmer's expression Wulf was not the only one who heard her. Irileth's eyes went wide, and she breathed a weak "No!", before coughing up a mouthful of blood. Wulfryk let go. She was dead before she hit the ground, staring sightlessly at the sky, mouth open in silent protest.

Blood was dripping to the floor along the sword he had kept his grip on. He was not sure whom he cursed when he whispered, "Meinþú fá, tík born á læng-dauðri svinna!"

He did not feel the heat behind the words, neither the heat of anger nor tightness in his chest and throat that came with disappointment, nor even disbelief at how utterly disasterous things had gone down. He felt focused.

It should not be a familiar sensation.

There was no more reason for Wulf to hurry. He felt absolute clarity, his every move careful and with a purpose. The warrior knew exactly what he had to do.

When Wulf turned around he saw that Brand had managed to crawl to the supplies and was hanging on a bottle of what must be healing potion like a man dying of thirst.

"Want a new sword?", Wulf asked as he passed the bandit whose eyes went wide with shock.

"Get tha' cursed thing away from me!", he rasped and dragged himself away from the warrior until his back hit stone, like Wulf was some demon from the depths of Oblivion. "You an' your Daedra witchcraft!"

Wulf laughed. The outlaw was probably right, of all things.

He retrieved his own sword from where Brand had dropped it and tore through the dead bandits' belongings, tossing what he did not need aside without a care for the objects' intactness. He pocketed what coin and jewellery he found, as well as enough rations to last him for a few days. Wulfryk used the key from the charred corpse of the Silver Hand leader to open one of the larger chests in the back. The metal was quite cool to the touch, the furnace that had consumed the redhead's body too brief to damage it.

The chest was brimming with valuables, but he only took what he could easily carry away. He might need the gold to buy his way out of a picky situation. The Nord took the lock as well.

On the way back Wulf gave the dead body a series of kicks that staved in its ribcage and nearly tore off what used to be the head. The warrior wished he had some grasp of necromancy, just so he could raise the bastard in order to kill him again.

Revenge against a dead body brought not even the faintest tang of satisfaction and besides, he needed to get moving.

There was just one last thing. Wulf found a suitable chest in the chamber used for storage and tossed the stolen blade inside unceremoniously, without wiping it of blood first. He secured it with two belts and slapped the lock on top. The key he threw as hard as far as he could after a moment's hesitation. It gleamed briefly in the sun and then with a soft plop and a few ripples it disappeared beneath the nearby river's ever changing surface.

Wulf shouldered his pack and the chest, found his shield and walked to the perimeter of the fight's side, his boots squelching in the earth made soft from blood. He whistled and few seconds later his horse snorted in answer, coming closer. He had learned that the animals never ran further than was necessary and managed to teach it this much at least during their lonely months together. Under other circumstances he would have felt proud of himself.

The black received an apple as reward and went right back to grazing, unmindful of the corpses lying nearby as Wulf secured his belongings. The warrior noticed how dark it was and looked up with curiosity. The sun had set and only a bright stripe of turquoise against the ultramarine of the sky illuminated the horizon.

Wulf swung himself up in the saddle again. The Nord has considerately improved on his riding skills lately.

The night was clear and peaceful and only the winds were howling over the flatlands, whipping around his hair and his mount's mane. The black lifted its head and eagerly pulled forward, the breeze in its nostrils.

Wulf balanced the chest across his knees and used the stars to navigate his way. Whiterun was easy to find, the lights at Dragonsreach burning bright. He rode around, far enough away that no guard on lookout would spot him until he arrived at the gap that was the end of the passage from the Underforge.

Nobody had been here recently which meant that the Companions were still out. Irileth had not had many soldiers with her, she had probably come across the bandit's hideout by accident or she would have sent for reinforcements. Wulf hobbled his horse and went in. He had his pack and sword with him. The first he would need, the second hopefully not.

Jorrvaskr was dark, just as he had expected it to be. Wulf let himself in and immediately went downstairs. From the dormitory he heard snoring, but otherwise there was no other sound. His room – he had actually gotten used to it enough to call it his – was the same he remembered. Wulfryk closed the door, let his magical light flare up and began to repack. He had done it so many times in his life that it only took him a scarce few minutes to gather everything that he needed.

Wulf quickly changed clothes as well, leaving the dirty old rags and shoes that were coming apart at the seam behind. He had had enough others tailored when he became Thane. What clothes that he did not need for now disappeared into his pack first, followed by a number of tools indispensable for the everyday life of a vagabond, his cooking utensils consisting of a pot and pan, a knife that he only used on edibles, spoon and fork and a mug as well as a couple of other objects like a tiny box containing salt. His journal went next and then everything he needed to pitch his tent and a multitude of knickknacks that he had accumulated over the years that one never knew one lacked until in dire need of them. Wulf relocated his bedroll to the front and packed various jars, his medical kit, healing potions and ingredients to make them, his writing utensils as well as the souvenirs he had collected during his life and that had been lining the shelves up to this point.

Then there was oil for his weapons and for his lamp, wicker, flint and tinder, a rope, a sewing kit, his whetstone, a kit to repair and clean his armour and to work leather, spare string and some more clothes he could change into without having to go through all the other things first and a warm mantle for cold nights, his rations and a waterskin.

Each object had its rightful place, could tell the story of the life he had led. Wulf knew without having to count that everything he had crossed the border with was accounted for.

There were still a few things missing, though.

Wulf pulled open the door, reassured himself that the mead hall was just as empty as it had been before and that the snorer was still asleep and put his pack out in the corridor. The doors to Vilkas' room were open, nobody in Jorrvaskr usually bothered with locking them.

Wulf rifled through piles of documents quickly, until he found what he was looking for inside one of the desk's drawers. The map of Skyrim was better than anything he had, all the main roads and landmarks drawn in fine lines. It was already folded and so he only pocketed it and exited Jorrvaskr.

The backpack Wulf left in the passage of the Underforge before going back into the city. A light rain had begun to fall and he pulled up his hood, drawing his cloak tight around him. Nobody paid the figure any mind, believing him just another citizen hurrying to get out of the rain.

The Nord warrior was walking the streets of Whiterun, and though he was right in the city's midst, he was not a part of it, the life flowing around him, leaving him untouched. Every sense of his was heightened; he could hear snatches of conversations as people talked inside their houses and smell food cooking and smoke – and then there were those things he should not have been able to pick up on, like the soft fall of a cat's paws as it ran for cover, the rapid beat of a bat's wings or the whiff of ale on the breath of a guard on the other side of the street.

By the time Wulfryk reached Breezehome nobody was out anymore, and the clouds and rain plunged the alleys in a deeper shadow, as braziers and torches guttered out with a steady hissing sound. After he had paused to listen with his ear at the door Wulf eased it open, mentally thanking Proventus for having the rusty hinges oiled.

The coals were glowing in the fireplace in the middle of the room and Lydia's voice was coming from upstairs, but it sounded muffled as if coming from behind a closed door. Wulf quietly shut the front one and tiptoed up the stairs, noticing how lived-in and inviting the house now appeared.

Lydia was in the room on the right, so Wulf entered the one on the left, guessing that she would have left it for her Thane. He guessed right; the rest of his things, the ones Lydia had taken with her on the carriage when she returned from High Hrothgar were there, right atop the bed. Wulf untied the knot and eased open one of the bags; he only was truly interested in the book on dragon language he had stolen from the Greybeards. It was the first thing he saw, along with the journals of an adolescent Ulfric and he grabbed both bags and snuck outside again.

An infant laughed and Wulf stopped suddenly, too much so, for one of the stairs creaked beneath him.

"Hello?"

The door opened and Lydia's shadow blocked some of the light that spilled out.

For one moment Wulf thought about calling out to her; he still considered his housecarl his friend and he knew Lydia would be willing to listen to him. And she would defend him if necessary, follow him even because she was honour-bound to do so. But she had a home now, and a family – Wulf knew Farkas' scent, it was all over the place. He was happy everything had worked out between them, even if he was sorry he had not been here for them.

Then one of the babies began to cry and the housecarl retreated, muttering something about her imagination. Wulf dared to breathe again. No, if she was questioned by the Jarl it was far better she remain uninvolved in this whole mess. He had set her up for a comfortable life; and if nobody knew where he went neither she nor his shield-siblings would attempt to seek him out.

Wulf moved on and as he did so, Lydia began to sing in a surprisingly beautiful, throaty voice. He left the house and city, the haunting notes still sounding in his heart, in accord with his own loneliness.

The Nord slung the bag he had taken from Breezehome over his horse's back and led it towards the stables. Skulvar's horses were guarded by two giant, shaggy shepherd dogs that both jumped at the intruder, barking madly. Wulf growled back and the dogs whined and flatted themselves against the ground, tails between their legs.

He took the grey mare he had bought for Lydia to ride on their way to Gallows Rock and put her in tack, and when he had taken her outside, transferred all his belongings to her. His own horse could not carry him and a good hundred and thirty pounds of his gear, both.

And then there was nothing more holding him back and he turned south, riding for the river. He had a false trail to lay and a destination to figure out. Once Wulf deemed the distance between himself and Whiterun sufficient he chanced a small light and studied the map.

Where to now?

Solitude and Windhelm were the largest cities where he could most easily go into hiding, but they were also centres of the war. Though Ralof would be in Windhelm, the last thing Wulf wanted was to be dragged into politics. Dawnstar was out as well, for obvious reasons. Farkreath was too close to Helgen for his liking and to Whiterun; caravans often went from one place to another and might carry word of his whereabouts back to the Jarl. There was nothing for him in Winterhold and Riften had an unsavoury reputation.

That left one city. It sounded like the perfect place for Wulf to escape trouble for now, to begin anew. Nobody there knew who he was. Wulf could forget about being the Dragonborn, ditch his duties as a Thane and avoid getting into any more relationships or guilds in love with disaster, and maybe, at long last even build a life for himself, one he would not have to flee from again.

Wulf refolded the map and put it away again. He felt better, having a destination in mind.

Maybe later he would curse and throw a hissy fit the likes of which Tamriel had not seen to this age, but for now he felt calm.

When the sun was rising again he heard a long howl tear through the dusk, far behind him. A pack on the hunt. But not wolves. For their sake, Wulf hoped they would not cross his path.

He clucked his tongue at his horses to go faster and turned west, towards Markarth.


	40. BTS: EPILOGUE

A lone rider raced across the plains of Whiterun, keeping ahead of the billowing cloud of dust that arose in the distance behind him.

The guard squeezed his horse's sides harder, clucking his tongue in encouragement. The young hunter galloped on despite the white lather covering its neck and breast and the foam that flew from its mouth in small flocks, not unlike snow.

They had almost made it. The rider did not stop at the stables or the main gate, but sped right past, shouting to his comrades and at the citizens to move out of his way. He flung himself from the horse's back when he reached the stairs that led up to Dragonsreach. Face red with exertion and panting he took those three at a time and ran right past his startled fellow guardsmen until he stood before the Jarl, bent almost in half and gulping for air.

“My Jarl”, the soldier forced out and managed to sketch a sloppy salute that he just knew Irileth would have had his hide for, before he had to curl up on himself again to lessen the pain in his side.

Balgruuf was about to tell the distressed guard to take his time when the man straightened and his next words made Hrongar drop his spoon and the usually reserved Proventus express his surprise in a few choice words that the Jarl had not heard out of his steward's mouth before.

“Ulfric Stormcloak rides for the city!”

 oooo

They could have been under another dragon attack judging by the chaos that followed. There was a burst of frantic activity; Hrongar, who had taken over Irileth's position as housecarl, bellowed orders that sent soldiers scurrying to their posts and Balgruuf issued his own, striving for a calm that he did not feel.

Instead he was all the more conscious of the empty place that his former húskarl had filled. The Dunmer warrior had been unshakable in the face of danger, but it was his friend and her reliable confidence and dry sense of humour that he missed most.

The Jarl had bread and mead brought– and his greatsword. Hrongar walked on his right side and Farengar on his left and Proventus behind. He was surrounded by friends and people loyal to him and yet in that moment Balgruuf felt utterly alone as he walked to the city gates and past the drawbridge to stop in front of the outer gates. He winced at the sight of crumbling walls and fortifications that had been reinforced with wood out of necessity and knew immediately that it wouldn't escape his visitor. The other Nord would make notice of every weakness and Balgruuf was absolutely sure that he would never have let Windhelm fall into the same state of disrepair. He was suddenly ripped out of his thoughts when one of the soldiers blew into a horn; a long, mournful wail that raised goosebumps and made hair stand on end.

Stormcloak and his men were drawing near.

The battlements above and the twin towers were manned with archers and there were a good forty soldiers at the Jarl's back, twice the number Ulfric had. But neither his men nor his brother or even his court mage would do Balgruuf much good if his old rival had come to challenge him as he had Torygg.

When the riders came into view, tearing up the road in a full gallop it was impossible not to notice Ulfric Stormcloak. He rode in front, mounted atop a snow white charger that was almost too bright to look at with the sun glinting off its shining coat and armour. Two soldiers rode abreast holding up the banners of the Bear of Eastmarch.

The Jarl of Windhelm knew how to make an entrance; Balgruuf had to give him that. Stones and earth sprayed from the horses' hooves and the ground trembled beneath the charge. It _was_ impressive and he felt his heart speed up, but stood firm. A nervous shudder passed through their own ranks as the warriors shifted uneasily with the riders bearing straight at them.

Balgruuf's attention however was drawn to the two other banners: white flakes on a field of blue. They were mourning colours; the blue standing for the clear skies and white for snow. It gave him hope that this day would pass without bloodshed.

Ulfric lifted his right arm and his men reined in, to the palpable relief of the soldiers on foot. The Jarl's horse pranced nervously beneath him, tossing its head and Balgruuf remembered that he had loved to race the animals once. Only six riders approached them at a more moderate pace and the Jarl of Whiterun recognized Galmar Stone-Fist, who served as húskarl to his lord and friend.

Farengar leaned closer to his lord and quietly whispered, “Beware of the one on the left; I can feel his magic. He is protecting Stormcloak.”

Balgruuf thought the elderly man with a bushy, greying beard looked utterly unremarkable but he trusted his court mage's judgement on the matter and his ability to deal with the man if necessary.

The Jarl's own attention was entirely claimed by Ulfric and he braced himself, feeling the ranks of his soldiers around him close in as sixteen hundred pounds of animal and rider stopped just a hair's breadth before colliding with the Jarl of Whiterun, who would sooner fall over dead on the spot than give ground. Balgruuf felt the horse's heavy exhale across his face and caught a pungent whiff of horse sweat and released the penned up breath he had been holding.

He met Ulfric's hard gaze, allowing himself to be drawn into a contest of stares, one Jarl against the other, until Stormcloak's mare threw her head up violently, forcing Balgruuf to step aside or be knocked onto his ass and spraying the Jarl with foamy slobber.

Kyne's cunt, but he hated those stupid animals – and their riders even more so.

“Balgruuf.”

Ulfric was the first to break the silence and he did so with the slightest inclination of his head. If it was meant to show respect it missed its mark by a mile, for he was still seated atop his prancing horse. Along his infamous act of killing the High King and a penchant for getting himself thrown in jail the man was also known for his preposterous arrogance.

“What do _you_ want?”, Balgruuf said in the way of greeting.

“I have come to pay my respects to the Companions.” Ulfric did not add ' _As is my right',_ but the words nonetheless hung in the air between them.

“Will you not dismount?”, the Jarl of Whiterun enquired with a pointed look that was completely ignored by the man it was directed at.

Stormcloak's face did not change; he only patted his horse on the neck to calm it down. “Not before I know whether it is futile.”

Balgruuf grit his teeth and wished for a gate to Oblivion to open under the other man and considered the choices he had. Refusing Ulfric's....demand, for it could not be called a _request_ would strain their already tarnished relationship even more. Worst of all, it was the Nord's right to enter Whiterun as a neutral city and even more so to seek out the Companions in order to convey his condolences. The trouble was, Balgruuf strongly suspected Stormcloak of having some ulterior motive that luckily coincided with an opportunity to visit the city.

“You put me in a difficult position", the Jarl begun, hoping against hope the man might yet see reason and reconsider. "If the Legion finds out I welcomed their enemy they will send somebody to -”

And find out they would. Caius was an average Guard Captain and a terrible spy, but he could keep his position for as long as he, albeit unknowingly, provided the Jarl with information on the Empire's strategies and designs.

“Since when does Balgruuf the Greater answer to Imperial lackeys?”

Hrongar growled something at the insult and took a step forward, his hand going for the sword at his back and Balgruuf had to grab his younger brother and drag him back with a stern, reproachful glower for the warrior.

Ulfric, the smug bastard, looked on in unconcealed amusement. “I swear on Kyne and Talos and on my own honour as the Jarl of Windhelm that I only seek to pay my respects to the Companions and to not use this visit to gather allies or advance my position in the war in any other way.”

Balgruuf immediately tried to find any possible loopholes, but he had to admit the vow was rather solid. It was more than he had expected and it had come without any persuasion necessary on his part. The Jarl grunted.

“Good enough.”

He waved at one of the guards to bring forth the bread and mead that he would offer to his guest and wondered if he'd manage to get anything down with his stomach rebelling. Ulfric snorted when he beheld the bottle of Honningbrew, a sound most unbefitting a man of his position. The Jarl of Windhelm reached behind him to pull a bottle from one of the saddlebags, slung his right leg over horse's neck and gracefully slid down its side. Some officer took the mare's reins and led the snorting steed away.

The Jarls split the loaf of bread first, each eating a chunk from the piece of the other and shared a cup of mead next, all without any words spoken. And then they had to repeat the process with the higher ranking members of the other man's entourage. Balgruuf approached Stormcloak's housecarl first, then his officers, all of which were on their best behaviour. Too bad the same could not be said of his own men.

Ulfric lifted his cup to Balgruuf's steward, as if in toast. “Provenus. Your health.”

The Imperial man sniffed. “Pity yours is still intact.”

The Jarl only raised one eyebrow at the retort that had come in a nasal whine and moved on towards Balgruuf's brother. “Hrongar.”

“Don't speak to me or I'll be forced to break my vow to Balgruuf to not throttle you with your entrails, traitor.”

“As always, it is lovely to meet your family, Balgruuf", the Ulfric remarked with astounding calm, completely ignoring the fuming Hrongar. "Though I do not see your delightful housecarl; she too had an unhealthy obsession with my guts, if I remember correctly.”

Ulfric drained the cup and closely watched the strangled expression on his host's face. He then turned and walked up to the drawbridge and city gates, forcing a white-faced Balgruuf to hurry after him.

“Ah, Whiterun. She looks as beautiful as ever." He stopped in front of a golden banner waving in the wind to study it. "I do not remember you replacing your father's emblem with a goat though", the Jarl said with evident surprise and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. "Maybe I should visit more often.”

“Your head almost did", Balgruuf could not refrain from pointing out, a sorry excuse of a comeback for the provocation. _A goat!_ He squinted at the offending cloth and hated to admit the other man had a point. He would have to order the weavers-

“My head prefers to journey with the rest of my body”, Ulfric dismissed the comment and began to walk again. The guards pulled open the gates to the city for the two men. “Does that disappoint you?”

“I'll get over it”, Balgruuf grunted. He knew the man next to him could sense weakness like the wolf he was named after, but after the events of the last weeks he did not have the energy to keep up pretences. Of all the times the Jarl could have visited, this was the worse.

On top of that he was left wondering how it was possible for Stormcloak and his followers to come within a day of his city without any forewarning from their scouts or border patrols. As much as it was alarming it spoke volumes of Ulfric's ability lead his soldiers through unfamiliar territory - or to the meticulousness of his spies. How the Imperials had managed to ambush him was a mystery.

Stormcloak tore into the leftover bread with real gusto and undoubtedly fake ignorance. He offered a chunk to the man walking beside him and Balgruuf waved the gesture away. He was not hungry; had not been for a while. All food tasted like ashes, the ashes of a funeral pyre that had settled on his hair, and robes, and face.

"You should eat", Ulfric remarked blithely. "You look terrible."

It had not escaped his notice how gaunt the other Jarl was. There was almost nothing left of the chubby man he remembered. Dark bags gave Balgruuf's eyes a bruised appearance and though his hair was braided, it hung listlessly in fatty, matted tresses, like he had not bothered to disentangle and wash it for weeks straight. If Ulfric knew one weak spot of the other Nord, it was his vainness. The man was a fop; he dressed in the bright finery of a peacock and was decked out in a jewelled circlet, with rings on his fingers. Ulfric did not know what must have happened for the other Nord to let himself go like this.

The Jarl of Whiterun stopped in his tracks and Ulfric took another step or two, before he pretended to notice and followed suit.

“I have been mourning my son's death, you tactless bastard.” Balgruuf's fists were clenched at his sides, flecks of red discolouring his waxen, unshaved cheeks.

Stormcloak could actually look taken aback. “Forgive me." He half-bowed in apology; such a topic was beyond what he was willing to touch on just to gain some advantage over the other Nord. "I did not know.”

“As if you cared”, the Jarl of Whiterun forced out.

They slowly resumed their way. “Would you believe me if I said I did?”, Ulfric asked softly. He had lost family and it was a pain he did not wish upon anybody but his most bitter enemies.

“Only if my wits equal your skill at diplomacy.”

Booming laughter answered Balgruuf's jab and the people who had been keeping out of their way stopped to cast curious looks the pair, startled by the sound.

"I have missed –"

“You have missed being insulted?", Balgruuf interrupted, not in the mood to share thinly veiled insults disguised as banter. "You should talk to the Battle-Borns then. I’m sure they would be happy to indulge you.”

He couldn't see the man gone soon enough. “Go about your business and leave; I won't have you kill or sow discord in _my_ city."

If the open hostility startled Ulfric, he concealed it well. At least it put an end to his amusement and Balgruuf felt a hair's breadth less inclined to punch him in the face.

“I must admit our last meeting was rather stained by unpleasant circumstances”, Ulfric conceded with a sigh, his gaze wondering over the wooden structures around them and the people who quickly resumed what they had been doing before they had stopped to gawk.

Balgruuf could not believe the man's gall. After what he had done... “By you Shouting Torygg to pieces”, he grit out.

“I didn't _Shout_ him to pieces", Ulfric corrected him unapologetically. "You of all people should know, you were there.”

“No, you didn't", Balgruuf agreed. "You flung him twenty feet through the air and into a wall, probably breaking half of his bones and butchered him like a sow when he was still down. _In front of his crying wife_!”

Ulfric shrugged carelessly, the motion ruffling the fur on his shoulders and declared haughtily “I gave him plenty of time to get up first.”

The High King's armour, only ever used for ceremonial purposes up to that day, had been pretty before Ulfric's Shout had dented it so badly half the inlaid gems fell out. Balgruuf and a few other Jarls who had accepted the 'invitation for negotiations' stood witness to the man's demise and because he had stayed after the duel, Balgruuf knew they had to saw pieces of the king back on for his last rites, his broken body spilling out when the armour that held it together was removed.

Balgruuf remembered the pleas of Torygg's young wife as the Jarl of Windhelm had stood over the fallen lad to coldly glare down at the man. None of them thought Ulfric had it in him to take the High King's life in his own courtyard. And then Stormcloak had proven them all wrong.

They _had_ fought, though. Torygg had been a dead man as soon as he had accepted Ulfric's challenge, Shout or no. Ulfric had even had the gall to toss his sword from his right to his left, before settling to fight with his left hand. One final insult delivered to the High King. And he'd been good too, Balgruuf had had to admit with grudging admiration. He himself had not picked up his sword in...months, he realized with a pang of shame. Apparently the Jarl of Windhelm had kept up his warrior's training.

“Don't you have a conscience?”, Balgruuf asked, aghast at the cold-bloodedness of the Jarl when confronted with his crime.

Ulfric's answering gaze was without pity. “War requires action, not sentiment", he said. "You would know if you'd ever been in one.”

To this day Balgruuf could not forgive his father for calling him back after a few minor skirmishes. The late Jarl had not wanted his heir put in danger. He had had no such qualms about his younger child.

The indignation burned, even years later. “I have been in battle.”

The indulging smile Ulfric gifted him with, combined with the faintest hint of a patronizing tone and his next words almost sent Balgruuf's blood boiling. “Drunk brawls between Legionnaires in wayside taverns do not count.”

“And it has worked out flawlessly", the Jarl of Whiterun retorted, his resentment evident. "Brothers and sisters are butchering each other on two fronts, friends are torn apart, neighbours begin feuds. Have you no regrets?”

“I have more regrets than you have hairs left on your head, Balgruuf. Liberating Skyrim is not one of them.”

There was no man more dangerous than the one who truly believed in the righteousness of his course. “You are not freeing her", Balgruuf spat, infuriated with the other man's blindness. "You are dooming her! Don't you see? While we fight, the Thalmor laugh behind our backs.”

“Oh?"

Balgruuf wondered if Ulfric practiced that particular look of mixed mild surprise, amusement and overconfidence in front of a looking glass and if so, how many hours per day. No wonder Windhelm was rumoured to be going to the dogs.

"I daresay they laugh straight in our faces", Ulfric said calmly, "Though I wouldn't know. Any Thalmor crossing into _my_ territory have nothing to laugh at.”

He looked so smug, it made Balgruuf sick. How could he, who had himself suffered at the hands of the Thalmor play right into them? The Jarl shook his head, giving up on the argument. He did not have energy to deal with all of this.

Thankfully, Ulfric was distracted when they passed by the statue of Talos, where Heimskr was currently busy sweeping the pedestal and lighting scented candles. Stormcloak bee-lined for the shrine, like a moth drawn to light. He put one hand on the altar, before going down on one knee.

Balgruuf took a step back to give the man his privacy. He thought it prudent, considering to what lengths the other Jarl had gone in the name of Talos.

"Ysmir-"

Heimskr chose that moment to begin his sermon anew, probably to show his devotion to the god to the Jarl of Windhelm.

Ulfric looked up, irritation furrowing his brow upon being interrupted. “Would you shut up for a moment?", he barked at the priest. "A man can't hear his own thoughts.”

Heimskr's jaw snapped shut immediately and moreover, it remained closed. The place was blessedly quiet without him shouting to the heavens so Balgruuf did not intervene on his behalf.

Ulfric bowed his head again and picked up his prayer, but though the Jarl of Whiterun heard every word, he understood none of it. He recognized the Old Tongue, guttural and harsh, yet strangely melodic from his days in High Hrothgar.

"Ysmir, hon dii draan ko Keizaalro tiid do praag. Bolaav zey mul, fah dii paal los pogaan ahrk fax, ahrk ahkrin wah dii rahzun ful mu aal qahnaar pah wo fund kriist midrak mii ahrk straag hond nol hin moro. Aak dii steg ahrk dii tuz ahrk lingraav avok dii fron ahrk gein voth dovah sos ahrk inaak mok wah zey waan grik los hin fen."

A short pause, then Balgruuf heard him sigh. "Ahrk enfan osos dahrin nau golah turog do Bronjun areid zey ful nid zuk Bron sos fen kos stiis."

Ulfric then reached into his coat to pull out something – Balgruuf saw the glint of metal and thought he could discern the shape of an amulet. Ulfric briefly touched it to his lips before putting it away again.

Finished, he shifted his weight to get up and froze. The Jarl needed to brace a hand on the ground for a moment before he stood stiffly, brows furrowed with what Balgruuf guessed was pain. He wondered if the rumors about Stormcloak's deteriorating health weren't true after all.

“I'm glad you have been true to our faith.” None of the strain that had showed on his face a moment ago was in the Jarl's voice as they contuned.

“For all _your_ talking I am a true Nord", Balgruuf declared proudly.

“Yes." Ulfric sounded distracted. "I wish we could have been allies.”

"I stand where I have always stood", Balgruuf reminded him. "With Whiterun."

“The Gildergreen is sick.” Ulfric picked up a fallen petal from one of the benches that surrounded Kynareth's holy tree and as if in second thought he sat down, twirling the crimson flower between his fingers absent-mindedly before pocketing it. Balgruuf noticed that he was breathing more heavily than a leisurely stroll warranted. He did not take a place, remained standing himself. Neither did he reply to the statement and so the sounds of the city washed over them. Behind the two Jarls their followers kept a respectful distance, each group making sure there was enough space between them.

“I hear the Dragonborn is in Whiterun”, Ulfric said conversationally, more to the tree than the Nord next to him.

“Did your spies tell you so?”, Balgruuf asked, sourly. He had explicitly ordered his soldiers to hold their tongues.

Ulfric spared him an amused glance. “There was no need. As a man trained in the Voice I heard the Greybeards' summons.”

“All the way from Windhelm?” Balgruuf knew he sounded doubtful, but despite himself he felt impressed.

Ulfric nodded. “All the way.” Some time passed before the Jarl of Windhelm prompted, “Well? You did not answer my question.”

Balgruuf had an axe to grind with the man himself, but he would not let the former Thane of his hold fall into Stormcloak hands. The consequences for the war would be disastrous. “The Dragonborn is gone”, the Jarl replied.

“Gone? Where to?”

Was there a hint of urgency in Ulfric's voice? Balgruuf was sure he detected the anticipation of the other man and did not let his smile show. Yes, there was that sharpening of the Jarl's gaze, the eagerness in his eyes unmistakable now. It was the same look he had had when he declared that he would be Skyrim's High King; power-hungry and full of self-entitlement.

Balgruuf was not going to give him a shred of information above what was commonly known throughout his hold. “I do not know", he said, for the first time since he had been practically overrun by Stormcloak's appearance feeling like he had solid ground under his feet again. "After his return from High Hrothgar he decided to fulfil a task the Greybeards had appointed to him." He knew that much from the man's housecarl.

“Pity. I had hoped to meet him.” Ulfric did not conceal his disappointment half as well as he had his emotions before.

So that was why he was here, Balgruuf thought with grim satisfaction. The Jarl of Windhelm would not find here what – whom – he was looking for.

“Who's that?”, Ulfric enquired and pointed to a wanted poster of Whiterun's disgraced Thane, changing the topic when he sensed he would get no more about the Dragonborn out of his host.

Before Balgruuf could open his mouth to answer, their conversation was interrupted by a servant from Dragonsreach that had run up to the Jarl to ask where he would have them house the Stormcloaks.

Impeccable timing if there ever was one. Balgruuf was all too happy to have a valid reason to avoid answering the other man's question.

"If you would excuse me for a moment."

 

xxxx

 

Ulfric nodded at the Jarl of Whiterun and watched as he took a couple of steps away from him to give orders to the head of his staff without him overhearing.

He stretched out his legs and suppressed a wince at the sound his knee made. At least the cramps had stopped. Galmar had cautioned him against riding too hard, but Ulfric had been adamant about catching Balgruuf by surprise. The Jarl inclined his head slightly when one of his men approached him, shuffling his feet like a horse stabled too long. Or a man hiding something.

“My Jarl.”

“Yes, Ralof?” Ulfric made sure to know all of his officers by name – and their loved ones and even bits and pieces of their history. He always had a few words for those who served him; a question about life back home, a comment on how their children were growing up, wishes for the speedy recovery of a sick relative. Most were surprised, yet honoured that the Jarl remembered them and cared. It was part of the reason how he had won over almost half of the country in just over two years.

“That man." The Stormcloak spoke quickly and quietly, casting a brief look at the other Jarl to assure himself he was still distracted. "On the warrant -”

“I recognise him from Helgen. What about him?”

“We escaped together. Became friends. His name is Wulfryk; anyway, he told me he is with the Companions", Ralof said so fast the words merged into one another.

“Ralof.” Ulfric looked up at the young man whose dedication had him recently promoted into his personal guard.

“Yes?”

“Go, buy yourself a drink", Ulfric suggested and, more quietly, "And find out what you can.”

The Stormcloak had an air of honesty about him that had to come from his rural upbringing, but he was charismatic and had brains enough not to get himself into trouble. Ralof retreated just as Balgruuf turned back to them, the servant running back to the keep.

"Your quarters in Dragonsreach are being prepared", Balgruuf said in a way of invitation.

“Thank you for accommodating my men", Ulfric responded respectfully. "I promise they will cause you no inconvenience. It is time for me to go to Jorrvaskr.” His plans had just changed.

“Do you not wish to refresh yourself?”, Balgruuf asked, too quickly.

“I shall do so after", Ulfric answered and turned his attention to his housecarl. "Galmar! Make sure they behave themselves.”

The grizzled veteran chuckled and cracked his knuckles, giving all the Stormcloaks minus Ralof a once-over. “Will do.”

“I wouldn't want to intrude upon your hospitality any longer than necessary”, Ulfric told his host utterly straight-faced.

Balgruuf had wanted him gone as soon as possible, just a couple of minutes ago. Now the Jarl of Whiterun looked like he had bitten into a foul fruit. Ulfric knew he had speculated that he could visit the Companions before him.

He did not allow his smirk to show. Be careful what you wished for, Balgruuf.

 oooo

“Jarl Ulfric!"

The old woman's hand fell from her husband's shoulder and she dropped into a curtsy that was more befitting for a noble court than a dusty courtyard.

"Fralia", Ulfric greeted her, noticing the dignity with which she carried herself, a stark contrast to the patched, stained dress she wore. "Eorlund."

The man likewise stood up and bowed.

"Please, there is no need for formality", Ulfric assured them. "I would not want to keep you from your work." He heard it was potentially unhealthy.

"Good", the smith grunted and went back to his grinding wheel.

"Eorlund!", his wife called out, aggravated, but he only grunted something intelligible at her and bent lower over his work. "Please excuse my husband", Fralia told the Jarl, giving up on correcting her husband. "All his talent is in his craft which sadly left him with manners like a lump of cold iron."

Ulfric laughed at the smith's heavy sigh as he stopped the wheel and looked their way, though he did not get up again. It was not for his company that anybody hired Eorlund.

“Would you do us the honour of dining with us?", Fralia asked the Jarl. "Our home is humble, but our doors are open."

“Thank you." It would be interesting to catch up with his staunchest supporters. He had not seen the Grey-Manes for too long and Fralia had been like an aunt to him when he had been but a boy. She and his mother though only distantly related had been close friends and so the old woman had used to visit Windhelm when Líf had still been alive. It all seemed so long ago now.

"But I have given my word to Balgruuf that this visit was to pay my respects to the Companions only", Ulfric declined regretfully. "We wouldn't want to make the Jarl nervous, would we?”

The old woman nodded her understanding, but the way she wrung her hands told him there was more.

"Something seems to weigh heavily on your heart."

"Yes", she admitted with relief. "It is about Thorald. We haven't seen him in such a long time..."

"He did not return to Windhelm after we escaped Helgen." Ulfric did not know what became of his best agent. "I had hoped he might be with you", he admitted. "Maybe his cover is still intact?"

It was entirely possible Thorald had gone right back to working on the mission assigned to him. If that was the case, maybe he had just not found the opportunity to send his reports. It was better for him to remain quiet than to be damasked as an agent of the enemy by the Imperials.

"I shall make enquiries", Ulfric promised. He would have to be cautious and the matter handled in a roundabout way, but perhaps one of their other contacts knew what had happened to the young man and were able to share their intelligence.

"Thank you", Fralia said and even Eorlund left his worktable again to clasp the Jarl's hand in gratitude.

"Of course." Ulfric gifted them with a smile, one of his few genuine ones. "Now I better go and relay my condolences. Kodlak was a great man."

"Aye", Eorlund agreed brusquely and pointed at the Jarl's side. "If you would give me your axe first, I'll have it sharpened to slice through bone like butter by the time you're out of Jorrvaskr again."

Only a fool would refuse such an offer. Ulfric handed over his weapon without second thoughts. He doubted he would need it, here, on Jorrvaskr's grounds. And even if...he did _not_ need it.

"How is the new Harbinger?", he enquired.

"He's struggling", was all the smith said. "You will best see for yourself." With that he retreated to his forge.

 oooo

Ulfric did. He remembered the mead hall as loud and full of life – not the exact opposite; quiet and empty. The only other person in the common room besides himself was a warrior with dirty blonde hair and an unkempt beard sitting at the table and nursing a mug. He reeked of drink. A pair of crutches were leaned against his chair.

The Jarl grabbed two bottles of mead from a shelf in passing and came up behind the man, filling his mug before taking a place.

The Companion stared up blearily at the other Nord. "I already like you", he slurred. "You here to apply? I don't think we 'ave met before?"

"No indeed. The name is Ulfric Stormcloak", the Jarl introduced himself, but did not extend a hand in greeting. Instead he took a sip of the mead and grimaced. The Companions used to have the good stuff.

It was almost comical watching the other man attempting to sit upright. "Torvar, m' Jarl. I'm sure you wanna talk to Vilkas...I can get 'im if you want me to."

"In a moment", Ulfric decided. Likely as not the layabout would break his neck trying to hobble downstairs. In the meantime...he might provide a willing source of information. The Jarl poured the contents from his own bottle into the man's mug and beckoned for him to drink.

Torvar was more than happy to spill everything he knew. The Companions had been attacked, Skjor and Kodlak killed and the Thane, only named Thane recently, because, _hush_ , it was a secret that he was the Dragonborn, had fled with a priceless relic and blood on his hands.

"Nasty business." Torvar shook his head and had difficulties to stop, the motion almost hypnotizing. "He killed Balgruuf's youngest son, then his housecarl, then Old Skald." He hiccupped and looked up, oblivious that the Jarl was observing him with the cold calculation of a predator; emerald eyes hard as chips of flint. "No, wait, Skald was first", he pointed out with a finger raised.

"Jarl Skald is not dead", Stormcloak corrected softly. Just a drooling imbecile; Ulfric heard that was still quite the improvement to when he had been actively ruling.

He would have to move swiftly to put in motion the plans he and Galmar had made. Messengers were already riding for Winterhold. Who could have known the unsuspecting Dragonborn would aid them so? Maybe he should extend his thanks to the man. And a pardon. If Balgruuf wanted him caught, it was all the more reason for his own men to garner the former Thane of Whiterun. After what he had done he would not be able to refuse Ulfric's offer and the aid of the Dragonborn would surely prove to be an invaluable asset to the war.

The Jarl of Windhelm chuckled mirthlessly and Torvar shut up immediately, realizing too late what he had just done.

"You may get the Harbinger now", Ulfric dismissed him.

 

xxxx

 

Vilkas came to the living room to find the Jarl of Windhelm sitting at the head of Jorrvaskr's long table like he owned the place. He did a double take, righted himself and walked into the room, heart hammering. When Torvar had appeared in his room without knocking, flustered and stammering that _the Jarl_ wanted to speak to him, the last person he would have expected was Ulfric Stormcloak.

The last time the man had visited Jorrvaskr, Vilkas had been a lad, not even part of the Circle. The time before that...had been at Askar's funeral. The thought made him feel terribly young.

Ulfric rose and greeted the Harbinger in a forthcoming, respectful manner that did little to put the Companion at ease. He was one of the very few men Vilkas could look squarely in the eye without having to look down. It was a strange feeling. Enervating.

“Jarl Ulfric." He had to grasp at the appropriate words. "It is an honour to welcome you in our hall." The man might be called a murderer by some, but he was nobility and a Jarl. And, Vilkas could sense that he demanded respect. He prayed the words sounded better out of his mouth than they did in his head.

Apparently they did. The two warriors slowly walked outside, and over the courtyard where the vista of the plains was bathed in the orange light of the setting sun. It was just easier and less tense than standing still. Ulfric had many things to say, about Kodlak and his own grief at the passing of such a distinguished, wise man. Too bad big words seldom came from big emotions. The Jarl should visit the Bard's College, Vilkas thought and flinched when Stormcloak mentioned Sovngarde.

The formalities eventually turned to talk of more everyday matters and the Harbinger was surprised that Ulfric seemed genuinely interested in how the Companions fared. Vilkas doubted that he really was, but he allowed himself to relax a little bit, leaned his elbows on the low wall surrounding the courtyard, mirroring the Jarl's pose. This was something he knew. The Jarl of course, knew the hardships of leadership even better. It gave them something in common. The rest of the conversation flowed easier, turned almost friendly.

After a while Vilkas could feel that they were drawing close to the end. Then,

“I heard the Dragonborn was a Companion”, Ulfric remarked in an offhanded manner that immediately alerted Vilkas that this was not just friendly interest.

“Heard where?”, he asked, playing for time.

Ulfric gave him none. “From the Jarl", he replied curtly, and then, "Where is he?”

Vilkas knew it was not the Jarl he was asking after. “He hasn't returned yet from High Hrothgar”, he promptly lied.

"Hmm." The hum made Vilkas' hair stand on end. “ _Interesting_.”

He had already put his foot in, he would stick to it. “What's so interesting about that?”, the Harbinger enquired, striving for a pleasant, ignorant tone.

His hope at fooling the Jarl died when Ulfric turned to face him. “That's not what Balgruuf said. You should get your stories sorted out”, he softly advised.

Vilkas swallowed, heart racing and fully aware of the colour that had risen to his face.

“Who is Wulfryk?”

He already knew. When Vilkas failed to immediately supply an answer, Ulfric Stormcloak nodded once, acknowledging the unwilling confirmation and bowed his head. “Harbinger.”

Vilkas was left staring after the Jarl, feeling like the other man had punched him in the gut in farewell.

 

xxxx

 

Ulfric Stormcloak did not go to sleep that night. Not because he feared that Balgruuf would go back on his word, but because there were too many thoughts crowding his head. With his men snoring in the quiet of Dragonsreach, he did not even attempt to find the peace that meditation usually would bring him. Instead he sat at the same table he had dined at and by the light of a few candles he was composing his newest letter. So much had been revealed by his visit, more than he could have ever hoped for.

In the coldest hours of dawn, before the sun had risen to burn away the mist Ulfric walked the streets of Whiterun. The city was neutral territory nobody would get as suspicious as if he sent his letters from Windhelm. That always required some finesse, to make sure the recipient of his correspondence could be not traced back to him – for the safety of them both.

Ulfric checked if anybody had trailed after him, but saw nobody; the city was dark and quiet and the few palace guards he had passed had been leaning on their spears half-asleep. Poor discipline, if he said so himself, but favourable circumstances for him. The Jarl did not need anybody to know of his doings, neither the Imperials, nor his own followers.

He found the man he had been looking for and a package and a pouch of coin changed hands.

His contact assured the Jarl he would leave as soon as the city gates opened and they parted again, quickly and without any more words.

Satisfied, Ulfric nodded and did the math in his head. Less than a month until his letters arrived if his contact found a trustworthy mounted courier. Two more at least until he could expect a reply. He took a deep breath of the brisk autumn air and let it out in a long sigh before he turned and retreated to Dragonsreach. Business taken care of, it was time for them to leave.

 oooo

Breakfast was a quiet, sombre affair. Balgruuf was obliged to attend, though he did not eat and although Ulfric's soldiers fell over the food eagerly, knowing that another month of way rations awaited them, there was none of the talk and laughter the Jarl had grown accustomed to. Galmar was keeping the Stormcloaks at a tight leash. Ralof appeared slightly hungover, but in good spirits and Ulfric was confident he had managed to gather some interesting news and gossip. He was curious to hear whether it matched with what he had found out.

After the meal it was time for them to depart. Balgruuf had their horses readied and accompanied his guests to the city gates where the Jarls exchanged a few terse words in parting. Undoubtedly the young Harbinger had informed his Jarl of all that had happened yesterday. Balgruuf looked anything but happy and Ulfric was glad to be leaving again, not willing to test the other Nord's patience any longer.

He swung himself onto his mare and from atop the dancing horse he saw as Fralia elbowed her way through the group of soldiers standing around them. The old lady spared a glare at Balgruuf when he asked her what she was doing here and approached Ulfric with a wrapped parcel. The Jarl smelled apple pie, a smell that brought back memories of his childhood. It was still warm.

"Something for your journey", Fralia whispered, and loudly enough for the others to hear "It is a shame we did not have an opportunity to talk."

Clever woman. Ulfric felled a decision that moment. "I did not know one of Whiterun's oldest families has fallen upon such hard times", the Jarl proclaimed. "You have my aid."

Fralia shook her head. "Eorlud will never accept help", the old lady replied sadly, but with a smile underlining the simple truth; that one could not force a proud Nord to accept help he had not asked for. But...

"He doesn't need to know", Ulfric answered with a conspiratorial wink. Fralia used to say the same about his father when she was slipping him sweets as a kid and she had not forgotten. "Now that I think about it my officers could use some good steel swords and axes. An order of...two hundred should do nicely for the beginning."

Fralia clasped her hands to her chest, tears of gratitude shining in her eyes. "Thank you." She reached out, paused for the fraction of a second and patted the horse's flank, a gesture that was meant for Ulfric's his leg, but she could not show such familiarity with the Jarl now.

"Return safely", the old woman quietly said.

Ulfric inclined his head. "Talos guide you and yours."

He wheeled his horse around, heels digging into its sides and raised his arm. The mare sprang forth in a fast gallop and the other riders fell into line behind him, banners rolled up again. Ulfric saw Wuunferth mumbling his spells and revelled at the sheer strength of the animal beneath him, the rapid thunder of hooves and the feeling of freedom that the speed brought him.

Fortunately, it was a long way to Windhelm.


	41. AWWY: On a Dark Winter's Night

On a dark winter's night snow was falling on the village of Wildeye in great white feathery puffs that stuck to every surface, filling cracks and crevices and rounding all corners. They coated the closed shutters of the wooden houses and covered trees and bushes in thick blankets that glittered softly whenever the swaying lantern's cone of light fell atop them.

Ra'Jira saw little of the beauty around her. Cloak drawn close around her tense, shivering shoulders the Khajiit shuddered with revulsion. She should have listened to her elders back when she had lived happily in the fairest of all countries of Nirn, Elsweyr, with her family. They had told her that in other countries water fell from the sky and she had laughed at the absurdity of such nonsense.

Living in a canyon in the Red Rock Desert had not prepared her for the first downpour of her life, mere four day's travel from her homeland's border. The Khajiit had almost turned back then and there, but the thought of being the entire clan's laughing stock had stopped her dead in her tracks. She had been warned, after all.

If anything was worse than rain, it was snow. Frozen water that came whirling towards the ground in deceivingly beautiful flocks that melted at the slightest touch, leaving a person drenched long after the snow was gone.

This was what Oblivion must be like; an ice-covered hell, a wasteland of endless white without colour, life or warmth. There was a saying that went with this country, one that Ra'Jira had never paid any heed to, but that she recalled at that moment. 'The only thing colder than Skyrim, the land of the Nords, were the people that inhabited it'.

Ra'Jira did not know how they could stand it; the biting wind that cut through all layers of clothing and the sheer temperature – and without a warm, thick pelt to boot. The Khajiit would have believed her fur to be a suitable protection against the cold, giving her an advantage that the Humans and Mer did not have. She had spurned their idea of dressing in clothes, only taking her shi'ari, a brightly dyed toga, for reasons of modesty.

A hundred miles further north she had bought her first dress made of rich wool, and not the flimsy fabric of her home. Before winter arrived a humbler (but much wiser for the experience) Ra'Jira had purchased shoes.

'Maybe it was the amount of drink that coursed through their blood that kept the Nords from freezing,' the Khajiit mused and shook her head, smiling at her own thoughts.

Here she was, mewling like newborn kitten when she had not made it as far as Skyrim yet. No, for now this one's destination was merely Bruma, the northernmost of Cyrodiil's cities and home to Imperials and Nords alike. The travelling merchant's wares were colourful and exotic and caught many a person's eye. She hoped to make a fortune here, where the land was harsh and the life more so; dull and cheerless compared to her homeland. These people were starved for some gaudy trinkets and small objects of luxury.

Ra'Jira knew an opportunity when it presented itself. The trader was shrewd, she had to be. The White Paws were her clan and she was the matriarch's chosen daughter, which allowed her to use the honorary title to show her elevated status. But this Khajiit was no stranger to fighting either, the constant threat of bandit raids that her clan had to deal with made her a warrior despite her young age.

Names were no protection, Ra'Jira knew. Not in Elsweyr and not here. If anything, it only made life a little easier when she met others of her kind. The humans didn't care.

The guard at the gate did not care for her appearing after nightfall, either.

"This one was delayed by the snow," Ra'Jira explained. "This one is cold and hungry and would like nothing more than to sit by a warm fire. This one has wares to sell," she added in a seductive tone, making it clear that she was no beggar to be ignored and left outside the gates until dawn. After some further quibble a few coins changed their owner and the portcullis were pulled up and the Khajiit was allowed to pass.

The Jerall View Inn was expensive, but welcoming and well-kept and everything a tired traveller could wish for after a long day on the road.

 oooo

In the morning Ra'Jira learned that her lodging's name had been chosen for a reason. She had slept until midday, enjoyed a hot meal and went for a stroll through what would be her home until winter turned to spring once more, allowing her to cross the mountains.

Outside all colour seemed to have bled from the world, leaving behind only black and white; a monotony was most calming and soothing to the eye. Everything was soft and blurry and even though it was mid-day a muted twilight lingered in the narrower alleys of the city. And above everything, the Jeralls loomed, a mountain range bigger than anything this Khajiit had seen before. It was moments like these when she truly was glad to have journeyed abroad despite the discomforts she had to face on a regular basis.

Bruma was a small city, and could be called such only because of the grand stone buildings and castle, otherwise nobody would have labelled it anything but a village, no matter whose count's behind warmed the throne. The further one ventured from the center the humbler the houses became. Wood replaced stone with straw roofs instead of shingles.

There were two mills and at least four carpenters in Bruma; the city's main trading goods being wood and stone. The woodcutters lived to the far right, close to the forest's edge and the miners', stonecutters' and masons' quarter was closest to the mountain. The castle looked dour and uninviting and was dark with soot. The cold must not become its current inhabitants.

It took some time and paperwork before Ra'Jira could set up her stall in the marketplace. By then she was familiar with many faces and called out to her customers by name, offering a bottle of scented water to one woman and a lovely piece of jewellery to a soon-to-be husband as a gift for his fiancée.

Life was good. The villagers – 'citizens' the Khajiit reminded herself – had quickly lost their suspicion of her. Ra'Jira knew how to be well-spoken and though they did not know the first thing about the cat folk's society, the others were impressed when she told them she was the daughter of a 'countess' herself, sent away to gather experience before she would lead her people. And honestly, who cared that she tweaked the truth a bit? It was as good a comparison as those barbarians would understand, anyway.

Over time, she had grown fond of them and their weird ideas – foolish concepts, as any Khajiit would have called them. Humans weren't so bad once you gave them a chance. And they had the most delicious fish dishes one could think of. It seemed unsurprising that Ra'Jira quickly befriended the fishmonger, whom she bought her dinner from almost daily. The Imperial woman's hair was short and curly and streaked with grey, but she was robust and strong, pushing her wheel-barrow through the streets with ease, crying out in praise of her wares.

Others might find the smell repellent, but the Khajiit's mouth began to water whenever she caught a whiff of fish. And these were caught every day by her husband and the cold and ice they lay upon kept them fresh.

She dodged a squealing pack of children that raced through the streets, slipping on the slick cobblestones and laughing. Ra'Jira smiled. The young ones were not different from kits, bundles of endless energy that wanted nothing but to play. They were fun to look at, the Imperial children so thickly bundled up in furs and cloaks until they were round with their arms sticking out at a weird angle, and had a waddle to their step that made them absolutely adorable. Rosy cheeks aglow and -

Something bumped into her, knocking the air out of the trader with a _whoosh_. The Khajiit managed to stay upright, waving her arms for balance, but her 'assailant' was knocked backwards, landing on his behind.

"Whoops," Ra'Jira chuckled and then she forgot to say anything else, mainly because of the boy sitting in front of her.

He had a somewhat dazed look on his face, a short, unruly mop of black hair that the wind had blown in all directions and the clearest, bluest eyes the merchant had seen outside of her own race. He was tall, but looked to be quite young. However, judging the age of human children was beyond this Khajiit's ability. She thought ten might be close, but that was only a rough guess.

Most noticeably though, the boy was dressed in clothes that were little more than rags. The pants were too big and had been rolled up several times, being held up only by a rough cord. The same was true of the shirt that was rumpled and not the cleanest and worn threadbare at the elbows. A sleeveless vest accompanied the outfit as well as shoes that were just leather rags wrapped around the foot. And that was it.

'He must be Nord,' Ra'Jira realized and felt the bitter chill of this lovely winter day much more keenly all of a sudden. Anybody else would risk losing limbs to frostbite or outright catch their death.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, ripping he Khajiit out of her thoughts, eyes wide with wonder. He probably had never seen one of the cat people before.

"This one's name is Ra'Jira," the merchant replied kindly, reaching out to help him to his feet. "And you, young one?"

"I'm Wulf," the urchin replied, accepting her hand to pull himself up.

"Wulf," Ra'Jira repeated, rolling the unfamiliar name around. "Like a wolf?" she asked, thinking that the comparison would please the boy.

A long-suffering sigh was her answer. "Nu-uh. Like V-OO-L-F." Apparently she was not the only one to get it wrong. "It's short for Wulfryk," he explained.

The boy looked like he wanted to say more, but just then a girl interrupted them, shouting loud enough to drown out everything else in the street. "Come on, Wulf!! Gaio found the haunted shack and Matus says he can climb the Nose better than you!!"

The lad had important business to attend to, the Khajiit saw, breaking into a smile. "Go on," she urged and gave into the compulsion to ruffle his dark hair. The boy jerked away like burned and dove under her hand, spinning out of reach before the merchant could blink an eye. But still he looked at her in wonder, if with no small amount of suspicion.

"This one will be at the market, if you wish to come by," Ra'Jira told him, unsure of what had just happened and watched him run after the other children. She was sure she would see him again.

 oooo

"Ah, here you are, I wasn't sure you'd come," Lysa greeted her friend with her usual loud voice and friendly smile.

"This one just bumped into one of the playing children." Ra'Jira gave the details to the other woman while she browsed for today's dinner. "Or he into me. Errr, Wulf, that was it." There, that trout looked absolutely delicious.

"Who?" the fishmonger asked "Oh." Her tone had grown cool suddenly and it made the Khajiit look up. "That would be Garmr's bastard. Useless scoundrel, that one. Chops wood and takes the one or other job here and there. Don't know where he gets all the money from that he spends on drink. That brat of his won't turn out any better, mark my words.  If you want some good advice; stay away from them. They're trouble."

Now if that didn't pique one's curiosity, Ra'Jira did not know what did.

 oooo

Her young friend came to visit her on the next day. There were few people out on the streets today and she welcomed some company and livening up of what otherwise would have been quite a slow and tedious day.

"Good morning," the merchant greeted him, trying not to flinch at his clothing – or the lack thereof. He was dressed exactly the same as yesterday. "How was the climbing?" she asked with polite interest.

"Boring," Wulf replied with a yawn. "Matus is a shit climber. He only did it to impress Gloria anyway, and he didn't even make it _halfway_ up."

"Hmm," the trader hummed. "And you are better, yes?"

She wanted to indulge him, but the boy puffed up with pride at her words. "Sure I am! See that tower?" he asked, pointing in the direction he wanted the merchant to look. "I climbed it, once," Wulf boasted with a wide smile.

"Of course." Ra'Jira responded with evident disbelief.

"You can ask the guards if you don't believe me," the boy challenged her.  

That was odd. "What do the guards have to do with it, Ra'Jira wonders?"

The answer came swiftly, accompanied by an even wider grin than before. "They were chasing me."

"Why?" If she sounded suspicious now, she could not help it.

"Turns out we're not allowed to climb the palace walls," Wulf finished with another shrug.

Ra'Jira laughed, delighted. This little one was entertaining. "Did you know the Khajiit are the best climbers there are?" she enquired, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Really?" Young Wulfryk looked sceptical, but intrigued.

"Yes. Look." The trader flexed her inhuman hands, and usually hidden claws slid out.

The look on the boy's face certainly was worth showing off a bit. "Wow," he gasped, openly staring now. "Are they real?"

"Very real," Ra'Jira confirmed. "And very sharp." She let the claws retreat again, feeling snug.

"Is that what you are?" Wulf asked after a moment's thought "A – a- Kha – Khatsheed?" The way he pronounced it made it sound like 'cat shit'.

"That's Khajiit," she corrected him until he got it right. He smiled, pleased with the praise he got when he finally managed to pronounce the unfamiliar word. There was a loud, growling sound that Ra'Jira realized was coming from the boy's stomach. "Hungry?" she asked. "This one has smelt meat pies by Jana's stall." She counted out some coins and handed them to the surprised boy. "Buy enough for two," the Khajiit reminded him not unkindly.

It was only a few coppers and it wouldn't hurt her much if he ran off with them. Let it be a test.

But the urchin returned, and quickly enough that the food was still hot and steaming in the chilly winter air.

Ra'Jira quite enjoyed the company of her young friend. She still caught him staring and once he warmed up a bit there was no end to his questions, but she did not mind answering those. "Where was she from? Were there other cat-people in Elsewhere? What is a desert? Did she eat mice?" And, finally, very shyly, "Could he pet her?"

Ra'Jira generously allowed him to stroke one furry arm, because he seemed genuinely curious and absolutely fascinated by her. It was a thing seldom found, such open-mindedness and from what she knew, rather unusual for his kinsmen.

They talked so much, that the pies lasted for a while, but when the merchant saw the boy's longing gaze, she relinquished her other half. She was repaid by the most sincere look of gratitude she had ever seen.

None of them noticed the approach of the other woman until she was upon them and loudly cleared her throat to get their attention.

"Eating pie are we, eh? Where did you get that from?" she whined, the words directed not at the merchant, but her young companion. The high-pitched, nasal tone was violating this Khajiiti's ears and she almost responded by asking the woman to move on, but somebody beat her to it.

"That's none of your business, you old hag," the boy shot back without batting an eyelash at insulting an elder.

'Oh, this is delicious,' Ra'Jira thought, leaning back and enjoying he show. If any of her siblings behaved like this towards one of the other clan members, her mother would have tanned their hides. But the young one was not one of the kits and Vinicia was one of those snobbish people that looked down on everybody else. She had even tried to run the Khajiit out of business by badmouthing her. She deserved everything she got, and more.

 oooo

"I heard Vinicia complain to her husband today." Ilana worked at the bakery and paid her friend a visit, helping her pack and carry her goods. "She looked furious. Did she pester you again, dear?"

"She did, briefly. Young Wulf ran her off," Ra'Jira replied, smirking in satisfaction despite the fact that today's business had been practically nonexistent. That boy had quite a dirty mouth on him.

"Wulfryk?" Ilana repeated. "Garmr's son?" She sounded almost as unhappy as Lysa had. "You watch yourself, he's a wild one," the baker counselled after a moment's thought.

"Wild? - How?" the Khajiit wanted to know. Wild meant enjoying life. Wild was good. "Besides, he seemed rather nice," she countered.

"Oh yes, he can be," Ilana laughed. "The loveliest angel with the saddest eyes you'll ever see. Don't fall for it; it's only for show. That boy's a rascal, alright. And there were several incidents with the other children... "

"Why don't you tell me more?" Ra'Jira proposed "Over dinner and a mug of mead?" She had grown quite fond of the sweet drink and friends deserved being spoiled every once in a while. An offer like this could not be refused and together the two stored away the merchant's goods before jogging over to the inn, hoods drawn up to prevent the whirling flakes of snow from getting into their hair and behind their collars.

As it turned out the 'incidents', as Ilana had referred to them, had stirred up half of Bruma. Parents no longer wanted their children to play with 'Garmr's bastard', as Wulf was commonly labelled. Something about it did not sit right with Ra'Jira; it wasn't like one could choose one's own parents. It seemed foolish to blame the child for any shortcomings of his sire. But it wasn't only his ancestry they found fault with; it was also the boy's own behaviour.

"He was picked on by the older children," Ilana explained after they had eaten and were now nursing mugs of hot mead. "They chased him and threw snowballs at him. So he challenged them to a snowball fight. Only, his 'snowballs' were rocks covered in snow. Some of the children were injured badly; Flavius has a scar across his entire forehead and almost lost an eye."

Ra'Jira nodded. She had seen the child with the scar. He had claimed he had been attacked by a wolf outside of the city. Now it sounded like it had been more like a wild Wulf. She did not laugh though, knowing that the baker would not understand the source of her amusement. It was good to know her friend knew how to defend himself. In the end, one always had only oneself to rely upon. A hard-learned lesson for most.

Ilana continued, oblivious to the thoughts of her Khajiit friend. "That was last year. This summer he punched Clevitia's boy, and knocked out his two front teeth. The brat was a bully and probably deserved it, but still. That Wulfryk has a nasty streak. The other children his age are scared of him and their families are, too."

"This one saw him running with playmates, surely they cannot be very concerned," the trader countered.

"Yes, yes," the other woman waved the merchant's reasoning aside. "They seem drawn to him like moths to a flame. Children can be cruel. Maybe he wants to belong, but often they make fun of him because of his lack of parents. At the same time they admire and envy him because he can do what he wants all day long."

Her words made sense, Ra'Jira saw the truth of them. It wouldn't be good for a boy of his age, all this freedom and lack of discipline. Maybe she could talk to him the next time they met.

Ilana was toying with the now empty mug, twirling it on the table. A crease appeared between her eyebrows and she put the tankard down and sighed. "I should warn you," the baker finally voiced what was on her mind. "He steals."

"Does he?" The Khajiit's ears perked up. Humans and Mer had a very weird understanding of property and she had been taught by her mother at length that thievery was a grave offence and that borrowing without question also counted as such. Ridiculous, but that's how it was. If she did not want to land in jail or lose a few fingers she had to play by the rules.

"Yes, small things. Food mostly. It's... well, everybody knows."

Interesting. Could it be that these people were not quite as stiff and law-abiding as she had believed? "So, when he snatches something you look the other way," Ra'Jira ventured, cautiously.

"Exactly," Ilana, said, relieved that her friend understood and did not judge. The baker was by all means ignorant of the laws and customs of Elsweyr, otherwise she would not have worried at all. "It's not like he does us any real harm. I mean, did you see the state he is in? It's obvious he doesn't get enough to eat at home."

Yes, the Khajiit remembered the hungry look on Wulf's face and felt really glad to have shared her pie with him. It cost her almost nothing and it had seemed to mean the word to him.

Ilana carried on, not quite finished. "People tried to help, you know? This is a community and we help each other. It wasn't so bad at first, Garmr worked hard to make a living for them both. But they lost it all when he became a drunk. A few generous souls once tried to get some things together for the boy. His father ran them off, screaming that he didn't need their charity." She shuddered. "Terrible man, that one."

Her words reminded Ra'Jira of something she had seen earlier. "Does he beat him?" she asked. "What about his mother?"

"I don't think so; boy never shows any signs of abuse." The baker appeared neither particularly upset nor interested. "Only, he is on his own a lot. I feel sorry for him, you know?" Ilana confessed quietly. "I remember when they arrived in Bruma; just Garmr and the boy, we do not know about his mother. But now all his father does anymore is drink and the boy runs wild."

It was not a pleasant way to end a conversation and so Ra'Jira steered their talk into another direction. An hour later her friend excused herself. It had been a long day for her and the next one began before sunup. They walked together for a while, until the women headed in different directions, each to her home. The Khajiit had a small hut that she had already prepaid the rent for; she still liked to eat at the inn from time to time, but staying there would have emptied her coin purse faster than a band of Black Tail Brigands.

The snow crunched beneath her shoe-clad feet and though the merchant feared they might make her soft, she was thankful that the humans had invented them. After a while, her ears picked up another sound. Footsteps, light and soft that fell almost perfectly in time with her own. The dark alley was deserted with no patrolling guards in sight. But the night was the Khajiit's friend, with her sharp eyes she had an advantage over any potential mugger.

"Ra'Jira can hear you," Ra'Jira hissed, earl flattening while her hand went to the knife at the small of her back. Claws were good, but solid steel was better.

A curse in Nord came as an answer. Seconds later, a familiar figure stepped out of the next intersecting street. The trader whistled with surprise; the boy was good to have gotten this close without her noticing before. Every Khajiit mother would have been proud for her young one to be as stealthy as a shadow.

"Your legs are too short to keep stride with a grown-up," the merchant told a Wulf who was sulking at being detected. "What are you doing out at this hour?" she asked when he had caught up to her.

"Same as you," came the vague answer, accompanied by a toe being scraped through the snow.

"You don't know what I'm doing," Ra'Jira laughed. Except for taking a walk in the dark and he was right; they were indeed both doing just that. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked the boy, after he just trudged after her in silence.

"Nope."

"Won't you be missed at home?" the merchant probed again. From what everybody had said, the last thing she wanted was a nightly run-in with that Garmr. "It's quite late."

"Nope. Faðir doesn't care."

His nonchalant attitude only empathized all Ilana had said this evening. The Khajiit decided it would be rude of her to pry further. They walked together to the house that was hers for the winter.

"You live here?" Wulf asked, curious once more. His surly mood had blown over and he was all excitement again.

"Only until spring. Then Ra'Jira has to travel on. There are many distant lands this one has not yet seen."

"I'm going to travel when I'm grown up," Wulf declared and the Khajiit was sure it was a decision he had felled this very moment. For his sake, she hoped that he would not spend his life stuck here.

 oooo

Ra'Jira saw more of her young friend as the winter passed on. Often he visited her at the market, though he was not welcome there, the other vendors always weary of his sticky fingers. A few times he was running with the other children, but Ilana had been right; mostly he was on his own. It didn't seem to bother him.

Today, it was market day and the main square was particularly busy. In Cyrodiil, so one journeyman had told her, Loredas was the designated market day. It did not surprise the Khajiit at all that the Imperials had laws (and charts, predictions and probably even divine prophecies) about which day appeared to be the most suited and lucrative for selling wares. Like all the other vendors, she cried in praise of her wares and many customers stopped by her stall. The gaudy, colourful trinkets were exactly what was needed to cheer up a cold winter day and they drew the eye like nothing else.

Out of the corner of her eyes Ra'Jira observed Wulfryk. The children had used stones to draw shapes on the cobblestones, and he was jumping over them, lost in his solitary game. But every now and then his head would shoot up and he would disappear into the crowd for a couple of heartbeats, only to reappear again somewhere else and to go back to playing.

Around midday a tall, gaunt baker accused him of nabbing one of his snowberry tarts, angrily stomped over to the boy and demanded he turn out his pockets. The urchin did, and with no small amount of protest, only for them to be empty. Every single one.

Smart boy, not to keep the stolen goods on his person, Ra'Jira grinned, increasingly impressed with the boy. He should have been born in Elsweyr.

Suddenly Wulf pointed behind the still arguing baker with a loud shout. "Look!" The man turned and realized that he never should have left his stall unattended. An entire gaggle of giggling children had snuck up and were raiding his goods. Wulfryk used the distraction to break free of the tall man's grasp and ran through the crowd, nimbly darting around (and, in one case, beneath) the busy buyers. He reached the stand first and made off with a tart in each hand, the baker cursing him and the other rascals on the top of his lungs, face red and blotched.

Who would have thought that this Bruma could be such an exciting, fun place?

Early mid-afternoon, Ra'Jira's young friend appeared behind her stall. He had an incriminating smudge of syrup on his chin and nose. She welcomed the boy with a warm smile and offered him the stump that was her seat, as well as a warm pelt to wrap himself in. She could not stand to look at his poor clothes.

"This one thinks that hawker got what he deserved," she mused, half to herself and half to the boy sitting beside her.

"He was stupid and slow," Wulf answered.

The Khajiit did not answer. He had given voice to her thoughts, exactly. "Where are your other things?" she asked instead.

She was given a wide-eyed and innocent look. "What other things?" He sounded so sincere, she almost believed him.

"The ones you have been hoarding since morning," Ra'Jira replied. "Unless they are well hidden I would get them somewhere safe before somebody else finds them." He still had much to learn.

"Uhh... " This was obviously not the reaction Wulf usually got. "Alright." He jumped up and left, handing her back the pelt. The Khajiit waved him off. She had made ten times the fur's worth today already and the day was only half done. He needed it and she didn't, it was as simple as that.

It was evening and one or two or three hours before closing time when the last person the merchant wanted to see appeared at her stall.

"Didn't I say I don't want to see your face here anymore?" Vinicia complained, backed by her husband, a fat, balding man who gave in to his wife's every whim. How lovely. Why they kept bothering her when she had the permission of the authority to set up shop she did not understand.

"Stupid face," the Khajiit replied. "You said you didn't want to see Ra'Jira's _stupid_ face _around_ here anymore," the merchant corrected her in a friendly tone but with a warning glint in her feline eyes. She saw one bored guard stir at the sight of trouble and head their way.

"Is that what that boy is teaching you?" the man puffed out his chest – or would have, if he had one to speak of. Instead, the motion only made his gut more pronounced. "Insolence for your betters?"

"I don't teach her anything!" a young voice called out behind them, before the trader could respond. It belonged to none other than Wulf. He stood with his arms crossed, no doubt trying to appear imposing.  "Ra'Jira knows how to recognize people with skeevershit for brains all by herself!"

To say everybody was stuck dumb at the affront was a big understatement. Somebody in the crowd snickered nervously.

It was time to play along. The Khajiit would rather have avoided open conflict, but now that it was upon her (and through no fault of her own whatsoever) she was going to make the most of it. Like any of her kin she found adversary highly entertaining. "This one thinks she is pretty good at it, too," Ra'Jira purred, her eyes narrowing to slits.

"You'll be gone by the time I count to three," the husband threatened, pointing a finger like a sausage at the merchant's face. "One. Two."

Oh, the expectations of bigoted dimwits. Destined to be forever ignored and disappointed.

"Ma'am, are these people bothering you?" The guard had arrived and apparently Vinicia had a reputation that preceded her. He could not have heard their exchange. Nobody answered. The guard turned his attention to the fat man. "Please, leave before I have to report you for harassment."

"But we have to help him," Wulf spoke up from behind the guard.

"And why is that?" the soldier sighed.

"You can see he's stuck," Wulf explained, wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve. "It's 'three'," he reminded the stunned husband, holding up as many fingers. "The one after 'two'."

"You little – "

It was most unwise to attack a citizen in the broad light of the day and in the presence of the city guard. Vinicia's husband got himself arrested and it was most satisfying – even if his wife bought him out of prison on the same day.

"She's just mean and Rufio is a coward," Wulf explained on their way to Ra'Jira's house; he was helping her carry things this time. The merchant unlocked the doors and let them in, stacking the crates one atop the other. Her wares took up most of the space, along with a big pile of firewood. But for a temporary home it wasn't half bad.

"Do you have another shirt?," the Khajiit asked suddenly.

"Yeah," Wulf answered, picking at a loose thread of the stained cloth. "But this is my winter shirt."

Ra'Jira clucked her tongue and opened some crates, looking through them until she found what she was looking for. "Here. Try this on."

Two gifts in a day; she was beginning to mother to boy. But when Wulf looked like he might burst into tears at the kindness, her heart melted.

 oooo

Morning Star was the coldest month of the year and Ra'Jira had not opened her stall in several days.

Some Nords said that if you spit on the ground, the spit would freeze before it hit the ground. The Khajiit had tested it, of course, and found it to be true. By the Mane! Her clan would never believe half of her stories when she returned. And she had not touched moonsugar in over two years!

Her mother would know that she had walked many countries of Tamriel, having done the same when she had been her age. Hopefully she would find her daughter worthy of leading the clan and if she did, the merchant would become a matriarch herself in time and change her name to Ri'Jira.

But such a day was far away yet and the Khajiit was not in Elsweyr, but in her small hut, feeding logs to the fire. Her supplies had dwindled drastically in the past days; she would have to make a trip to the mill soon. The citizens of Bruma had warned her that there would be a time – usually two to three weeks – when the temperature plummeted and she would be wise to stay at home.

A few fur-clad Nords laughed at them, claiming that this wasn't 'cold' in their homeland, this actually was a pleasant winter. The Imperials grumbled and shook their heads and called them crazy.

One stormy night Ra'Jira found Wulf in front of her house. She had not heard him knock and call out, because the wind was howling loud enough to drown out most noise and in the hearth the logs cracked from time to time. When she opened the door to check that weird noise the she imagined hearing occasionally, she found him shaking and blue lipped and ushered him inside immediately.

"Come in," the Khajiit urged "And undress. Here, Ra'Jira has some dry clothes for you. You must be freezing."

"A true Nord is never cold," he quoted, teeth chattering and it sounded exactly like the rubbish his father must have been feeding him.

The Khajiit wrapped him up in all the furs and blankets she had and he curled up on the rug in front of the fire.

The merchant hung up his clothes – they were partly frozen and as stiff and hard as a plank. She lit a few candles, all the while talking. He had given her quite a scare! "What are you doing out here?" she could not help but chide. He could have frozen to death! "Why aren't you home?"

"It's Faði. He's getting worse." Wulf had a large bruise on his cheek.

Ra'Jira felt a bolt of white-hot anger coarse through her. She felt very protective of her young friend. "Does he hit you?" she enquired in a kind voice.

"No." Wulf appeared unconcerned and she calmed down a bit. "He just hits around," he replied with a shrug. "I don't think he even knows I'm there. Can I stay here?" he asked after a while.

"Of course." What a question. "You get warmed up now."

But warming up was boring and all too soon she had to entertain her guest with more tales of her homeland. She missed it dearly, but it was also pleasant to share the memories with somebody. As always, Wulf's curiosity was insatiable.

"What's it like to have a tail?" he surprised the Khajiit with one of his questions.

"What is it like not to have a tail, this one would like to ask of you," Ra'Jira countered.

"I don't know."

"Exactly. Because you've always been without one. Ra'Jira has always had a tail and thus she cannot explain. What this one does not understand, however, is how one can speak that Nord language of yours and not stumble across all the 'hr' and 'gdr' and 'sthrr'." She had picked up a few words from him, just as he had learned a few of Ta'agra.

Wulf pondered the matter for a while before he answered. "Just pretend you're choking on a ball of fur."

After all this time the boy could still surprise her. "How do you know about the fur balls?" the trader wanted to know.

"I had a cat. Uh, a real one. Not a talking one like you," the urchin answered and ignored the Khajiit's snort of amusement.

_It had disappeared after a day and Wulf had not seen it again. But that night they had dined on meat and Wulfryk had not asked his father where it had come from._

"I'm hungry," Wulf declared when he was no longer shaking with cold and his attention turned to his neglected stomach.

"This one had bought supplies for many days. How about we make us some salmon?" Ra'Jira proposed and was gifted with a huge grin that she happily returned.

 oooo

Ra'Jira never thought she would be sorry to see winter pass. In the sun the snow began to melt and turn to puddles and everywhere she heard the soft sound of water dripping. She balked at the thought of leaving so soon and invented reasons why she could not set out just yet. But she could not delay forever and in the end the merchant was forced to admit that she could not stall any longer.

It was time to say goodbye to Bruma and to her friends, but in truth there was only one person she was going to miss. Said boy was visiting her for the last time, unsmiling this time. The Khajiit had never made any secret of the fact that she was going to leave.

It was unusual for Wulf to be so quiet, but then Ra'Jira could not think of anything to say that did not involve her departure. The boy just sat on her rug with his legs tucked underneath him, admiring the merchant's slightly curved knife.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Yes. It looks like faðir's sword, only smaller."

"Ra'Jira will give it to you," the Khajiit decided on a whim. "But things do not come for free in life; you will have to give me something else in return."

Wulf only had two possessions with him, half a loaf of bread that was today's meal and maybe tomorrow's as well and an old wooden toy that had seen so much love she wondered if he had picked it up after some other child had thrown it away.

The boy offered her the bread without second thought.

"Your food?" the Khajiit asked. "You do not need toys to live, but you need to eat," she reminded him.

"I can always get another one," Wulf replied with a shrug.

"Such a smart lad," Ra'Jira purred, pleased. "This one should teach you of the ways of the Renrijra Krin."

"The who?"

"The Smiling Scum. The Mercanary's Grin. The Laugh of the Landless. It is what others have called us Khajiit in their scorn. We have taken the name and made it out own." She felt the boy settle against her and smiled. It had taken a long time to earn his trust. The merchant continued. "We have certain guidelines -"

"Laws?" Wulf interrupted.

"No, young one. Not laws. We Renrijra do not believe in law as your people or the Imperials do. We do not follow it, though we strongly believe in justice. These are just some rules that we obey – when it suits us most. It is good to be brave," Ra'Jira cited the first, if not the most important of the thjizzrini. "But sometimes it is necessary to run away." The boy already knew that. He may never have heard of the foolish concepts, but he was already following them, just as any Khajiit would. They too did not need them spelled out but drank the truths in with their mother's milk.

"Life is to be enjoyed, but if you have to kill, do so without qualm."

Wulf's eyes went wide at the last part. Ra'Jira smiled sadly. She hoped he would be spared that last part, but the chance was high that he wouldn't. It was better to know about such things, as they did not spare the ignorant.

"Give freely to the people. Possessions are a burden; they will only weight you down." She hoped she had been a good example.

And the last one. "Ahzirr Traajijazeri. Justly take what is yours."

"What does that mean?"

Interesting that this was the only tenant he asked to know more about. How to explain to one who was not Khajiit? But, maybe, it wasn't so difficult after all. They were already very much alike, not in appearance but where it counted – on the inside. Ra'Jira never expected to find one of their own on her journey, one whose road led through snows bitter cold and not the hot sands that were in this Khajiit's dreams.

"It means that if you have to take something in order to survive, then do so. And if you cannot take it, make sure that it is of no use to anybody else, either. Revenge is a simple and pragmatic goal, but it should be the last one. And make sure you smile when you take whatever is yours."

She had never entrusted another one with such profound knowledge of her people. Ra'Jira sighed. "You should go to Elsweyr," she told Wulf. "The White Paws would welcome you; I name you szarij doha'jiit; friend of Khajiit. You would fit right in." When she reached out to ruffle his hair, this once the boy did not jerk away as he had done before, but surprised the Khajiit by hugging her for a long time.

Wulf never forgot Ra'Jira's parting words.

 

xxxx

 

Brutio complained. About absolutely everything. He was a greedy, despicable man who believed himself to be clever, but was only one step above a thug, picking on those smaller than him. He found faults with Wulf's work, pointing them out in a too-loud voice that made his workers shift nervously and avert their eyes as they scurried about. He was too slow. He was too sloppy. The pieces of wood were irregular in size, some no more than shavings while others needed to be split apart further. It went on and on.

Brutio was big, with square jowls, meaty fists and broad shoulders that cowed lesser men. He also had a gut, a too-small shirt that had food stains all over it and he stank of rancid meat and sour milk. 'Bloody Milkdrinker,' Wulf thought darkly and scowled at the Imperial in defiance, refusing to break eye contact and determined to stand his ground. It wasn't his fault his father was too drunk to come to work, and that he needed to jump in. That he was not as strong and needed a break from time to time. Wulf was tall for his age, as most Nords were, but he was still just a child and he had never chopped wood before, or done any other kind of work, in fact.

Every muscle in his body ached. His back hurt. There were blisters on his palms that had broken open. Wulf's blood was on the handle of the woodcutter's axe that he now twirled between his sore hands. It hurt, but not as much as facing the hulking Imperial on his own did, whilst everybody just gawked stupidly at the show.

And worst of all, he needed the money to survive. The town was too small and too many people knew about his thieving ways. It had become increasingly more difficult to filch something from the market stalls and breaking into houses was dangerous. That was a secret he had shared only with Ra'Jira. He had to let himself be caught at the market every now and then, because it turned people's attentions away from everything else he was doing.

And he wouldn't always get away, talk himself out or just plead with his eyes until they let him go. He wasn't _that_ young anymore. Wulf's scowl deepened. Everything was horrible now that Ra'Jira was gone. She had understood him and without his friend he felt lonelier now than he had ever had before he had met her.

In the end Brutio offered the boy fifteen coppers for a whole day of backbreaking labour, less than one tenth of what he paid his father. The Imperial might strut around like a cock in a pen of hens most of the time, but not even he dared to provoke the other Nord. With his silent glowers, the rage simmering inside him, boosted by lots of drink and a very real sword at his hip, nobody attempted to cheat Garmr.

"Two Silvers." Wulf was surprised that his voice did not shake. He should be afraid, but he was angry, tired and hungry. As his father slowly drowned in his cups, food had become a rare commodity. And though he had grown used to evading Garmr's sloppy swings, he dreaded what would await him when he brought home _fifteen lousy coppers_.

"Sod off, brat," Brutio growled and shook a hand that was too close to his face for Wulf's comfort and he involuntarily took a step back. "Take your money or leave."

It was the final straw. "þúgrís-riðav hludr-o skīta ȋósæd!! You piss-drenched Snowback," the boy shouted at the top of his lungs, mad with anger and infuriated with his own helplessness. "I want my money!!"

"What did you say!?" Those small, red rimmed and watery eyes had begun to burn with rage as the Imperial's voice rose to a bellow. "I'll teach you some respect!"

He was enjoying this, Wulf realized with a sick twist to his stomach in the split-second before Brutio swung his fist.

Wulf swung the axe.

 

xxxx

 

The sound of hooves on stone was loud in the otherwise soundless night.

"Should have stayed away from that flea-ridden cat," Garmr scolded his son. He sounded angry, but then he always did of late, just as he now smelled of drink. "They're skooma-addicts, liars and thieves."

"You are a drunk," Wulf replied indifferently. "And I'm a thief. Besides, I got nuthin' worth stealing."

The man behind him grunted, not happy with the boy's answer. "You do now," he reminded him.

"Yes, faði," Wulf replied automatically, his small hands tracing the patterns on the knife's sheath that had been a gift from his friend.

The weapon was too big for him, but he would grow into it in time. It was a fine blade, the craftsmanship superb and the steel undoubtedly Nord, hard as the leather sheath and grip were soft. When they reached their destination Garmr would have to teach his son how to properly take care of it.

After a while of quiet riding, Wulfryk wriggled around in the saddle, trying to turn and the man grabbed him by the collar to prevent the child from falling off.

"Can we keep the horse?" his son pleaded, looking back at his father, eyes wide and hopeful.

"No," he barked and after a while cursed vividly, asking "What in Oblivion possessed you to take an axe to Brutio?"

"He wouldn't pay me," his son responded, voice quiet and heavy with guilt. "And then he tried to hit me." And, after a long while, "I'm sorry."

Garmr sighed heavily and reached down to squeeze Wulf's shoulder affectionately. He wasn't happy about them having to leave, but some people just had it coming. And maybe it had been time to leave that shithole of a backwater anyway. Too close to Skyrim for his liking. They could disappear and then start over. It was always easy to find work at first.

"I'm not sayin' you shouldn't' ave done it," Garmr grunted, soon followed by "Next time, make sure you hit proper. If we're going to be fugitives from the law, there'd better be a good reason for us to run. An arm ain't worth all this trouble."

"Where are we going?" the boy wanted to know, looking around for the first time. Not that there was much to see, except for the dark forest, their path lit only by the light of the moon.

"South. I am fucking tired of the cold."

Wulf said nothing after that. It would be nice to be warm for a change.


	42. AWWY: On a Hot Summer's Eve

On a hot summer's eve a cloud of dust rose in the stuffy common room of the Lost Wench Tap House; small silvery specks that glittered in the narrow ray of sunshine that filtered through the cracked shutters of the grimy windows. A light dusting of grey they looked to be the cleanest thing inside the shoddy common room and settled on every flat surface: on the floor and tables, the shelves and atop the counter, no matter how often Trenus ordered Wulf to wipe it down.

With the unwashed rag he had the only thing the boy could do anyway was to smear the dirt from one place to another. But, with keen diligence and an unwavering sense of duty, he always swept it to wherever Trenus wasn't currently looking.

Wulfryk leaned against the soot-stained wood of one of the beams supporting the upper story and yawned. It made him inhale too deeply and he sneezed when his nose began to itch so badly he could not hold it back. Making sure that the barkeep's attention was focused on somewhere else he used the corner of the cloth in his hand to wipe his nose with.

And why not when any patron unwise enough to blunder in left in much a worse state than they arrived in, anyway?

The Lost Wench Tap House was a prime example of a seedy lower Waterfront establishment, encompassing the many faces of the district it was located in: poverty, depression and an insatiable hunger for drunken brawls and cheap quayside grog.

Although the origin of the name seemed rather obvious, nobody knew what exactly had happened to said lass who had worked at the inn for over twenty years before she had mysteriously disappeared one day. Only that she had gone missing right in the middle of her shift and was never seen again. Nobody knew where she had gone, either.

Wulf wrinkled his nose. If everything (and sometimes anyone) else appearing there floating upside-down was an indication, the canal was as likely a guess as any.

He suppressed another yawn, tossed the rag into a corner and stretched. After a busy night and day when he had to jump in for one of his fellow workers, it was time for him to collect his pay from the innkeeper and to go home.

Working at the tap house often was dull, mind-numbing work, but it had its perks. It kept Wulfryk well informed on everything that went on in the city (and the miserable private lives of the clients), the food was free and the patrons often too inebriated to notice when a few more coins went missing than there was a legitimate explanation for.

And, in his own crooked way, Trentus was a fair employer.

"I'm done here," Wulf called out to the man in question.

"Is the bar clean?" the other hollered back.

"No! But it ain't any more dirty, either!" He wasn't a magician and if Trenus hoped for a wonder he'd better take up praying.

Just then the doors opened and a harried looking Bosmer entered and looked around nervously. The smile that Wulf greeted him with was not entirely friendly, though none of it was in his voice as he cheerfully announced "Nalion! There's a pigeon drowned in the right upper vat; boss wants you to fish it out. Don't fall in and drown yourself!" the boy added with a smirk.

Nalion, who was his relief, groaned unhappily. "How comes the boss never makes you do the dirty work?" the Bosmer complained.

"'Cause I ain't late for work," Wulf shot back and pushed past him and through the door, out into the warm, humid evening. Finally he could go home. Not that there was anything about that place worth returning to, except for a pallet that he called his own where he could crash and sleep until morning.

The boy rubbed at his eyes and squinted at the orange orb of the setting sun. It was a peaceful view, something that could not be said about the rest of the city, and he allowed himself to enjoy it for a brief while before he finally turned his back on it and marched in the opposite direction. Away from the docks the smell of stagnant brackish water, tar and rotting water plants was no longer overpowering and a fresh breeze made breathing easier. Wulf's feet carried him through the Temple district where the Temple of the One, untouched by the Oblivion crisis and the Great War put all other buildings to shame. It was one of the wealthiest parts of town and would be pleasant if not for the upturned faces of its residents and the guards who were quick to remind the returning workers that loiterers of _their kind_ were not welcome here.

The boy's way led through the Arboretum that used to be a park where bored noblemen and their dainty ladies hung out a long time ago but was just a fancy graveyard now with statues of people long dead and to what had once been the Arena. _If_ there had ever been an arena it was long gone by now; the locals called the district the Flea Pit and it was the poor quarter of the city – but still better than the slums outside that leaned against the crooked Imperial City wall like two inebriated sailors against one another.

'He should sweep the market,' Wulf thought. Not _The Market_ , as in the neighbourhood where the upper-class trades- and master craftsmen ran their businesses and famous artists had their work on display between the arcades. Where there were entire stores full of books, and magical artefacts and where the smell of exotic foods and spices hung in the air like the perfume rich ladies favoured so.

No, there were plenty of stalls and ramshackle shops right at every corner in the Flea Pit and those who plied their trade in the streets were whores (and) or cutthroats. At this hour most vendors were in a hurry, their attention already turned to their homes and families as they packed their goods. The distracted merchants and the commotion they caused always provided a great opportunity for filching a few unobserved odds and ends.

Wulf's fingers itched, but he was tired and not focused on the task at hand and a slip-up was dangerous. These people wouldn't hesitate to drag him to the guard and many wouldn't bother with even that – there were other, quicker ways to deal with thieves and pickpockets and none of them pleasant. So, the boy passed through the crowded streets keeping his hands to himself and occasionally dodged the grown-ups too busy to look out to avoid collision.

A short while later he made it to the hovel that was the home his father and he shared. Garmr wasn't there which wasn't unusual these days. Wulf didn't mind. He had grown used to being solitary, although at times he did miss the other children, his friends. Often he remembered Ra'Jira and daydreamed about the exotic places she had told him about. His young mind conjured up images of landscapes he had never seen; deserts and canyons and even the azure sea that he pictured as a bigger (and cleaner) version of Lake Rumare.

That particular night Wulf curled up thinking of Bruma and the pang of homesickness he felt kept him tossing and turning for a long time before sleep finally overtook him.

 

The novelty of living in the capital of the Empire had worn off quickly.

Garmr had sold their horse a long time before they came into view of the city. When at long last they did, after many days filled with sheer endless walking, Wulf thought that it was the grandest thing he would ever behold. Because it certainly was the most spectacular sight he had seen in his young life so far. The long, arched bridge across the shallow waters of the Rumare Lake, the high, round walls and the White Gold Tower - a shining spire that reached far into the clouds – it seemed impossible that humans built such splendid structures without any help from the Gods.

The grandeur did not withstand closer inspection, though. The cobblestones on that bridge had deep trenches from centuries of carriages that passed over them and many were missing, leaving behind dark gaps like rotting teeth in a smile. The walls were crumbling and the White Gold Tower could not be seen from the Flea Pit which was the only district fit for two Nord vagabonds to live in. The coins Garmr received in exchange for the horse were not enough to buy the tiny shack they lived in; they had to rent it and it would not take long before they had more debts than money.

Wulf's father took whatever jobs were offered to him and worked ceaselessly to keep them from being beggared and to finance his addiction while his son was left to fend for himself.

The first few days the boy had been too scared to leave the illusory safety of their four walls. It didn't help that said home was located in a pretty run-down part of the city and none of their neighbours seemed to be of the friendly sort. There were just too many people here and to make things worse they spoke in a funny way so that Wulfryk only understood about every fourth word. Or rather, pretended that he did because it made him feel less like despairing.

The boy already knew Nordic, since his father refused to speak any other language and back in Bruma most Imperials spoke a mix between High Cyrodilic and the Trader's Tongue with a distinctive influence of Nordic that was reflected in their choice of words and the cadence of their speech.

In theory, Wulf was familiar with all three languages, yet the unique, drawn-out, hard dialect of the Heartlands and the neutral, monotonous tongue the merchants of the Imperial City preferred were all but unintelligible to him.

On the bright side, they had an almost unobstructed view of the Bastion from the Flea Pit's main square. It had been a major defensive fortification in the Great War and now housed many high ranking Imperial Legionnaires, a prison as well as the law square, where corporal punishments and executions were carried out.

Under those circumstances it was unsurprising that at first the boy rarely and only reluctantly ventured outside. Eventually, boredom, hunger and a growing compulsion to explore his surroundings drove him out. Wulf roamed the streets, mouth agape with wonder at the tall houses in the wealthier parts of town, some with ornate facades and the sounds and smells of the city around him. He got lost in the winding streets quite often, sometimes even for hours on end but since he had nowhere he needed to be and wouldn't be missed it mattered little and he always found his way back in the end.

On one occasion he accidently blundered through an alley that he had no place being in and pack of children ganged up on him. He was able to escape in the chase that followed and spent a very uncomfortable night hidden behind a chimney atop the roofs, eyes and ears strained for any signs of disturbance.

After the incident he took to carrying the knife Ra'Jira had given him. He kept it as she had done; at his back hidden beneath the cloak that had been another gift.

Over time, Wulf fell back into a routine not unlike the one he'd had in Bruma. Stealing in a city wasn't any different than stealing in a village, except that the stakes were higher. But then, so were the rewards. Wulfryk bid his time, observing the merchants at their stalls from a shady spot next to a fountain. It was nothing grand, just a stone basin and a pipe that filled it up with water; nothing like the marble carvings and jets of water he had seen from afar in the rich districts. This one was for drinking. There were plenty of others throughout the city, and many were used for washing all manners of things. It was unwise to confuse the two.

Here, in the Flea Pit, the boy was just another street urchin, and blended in well with the flocks of dirty, begging children, the youngest of which were less than half his age.

The vendors knew how to fend off those, he noticed. A child with all his attention on the goods and a hunger in its eyes that he knew well was shouted at and shooed away before ever coming close.

A busy errand boy on the other hand nobody paid any attention to. It took Wulf two weeks of riffling through the rubbish at the docks in order to find a suitable casket. Once he had the small box though, all he had to do was look suitably harassed and shoulder his way through the crowd and small items made their way into his pockets seemingly on their own.

Inevitably, the boy felt himself drawn to the cloth halls with their airy arcades knowing full well that this was a too dangerous place to attempt anything. The keen eyes of both the guards and merchants followed him but he liked to marvel at the things displayed in the booths and pretending to have a chore gave him an excuse to come back and gawk.

Most of the things Wulf pilfered were edibles and he did so during the busiest hours of the day, always on the move. Unlike professional pickpockets he had to work on his own with nobody he could fall back on. Those passed the stolen goods on the very moment they got their hands on them. Even if the attempt was discovered the coin purse or piece of jewellery was long gone by then – and with it any evidence of the thief's guilt.

Wulf wasn't as lucky. When he was caught it was red-handed and the slap in the face he received was enough to stun him for long enough that by the time he could have put up a fight he was handed over to a city guard. Something was dribbling over his face, he realized at the same time his stomach flipped, making him queasy and his legs shake.

In the end the Bruma villagers had looked away, always. But in the Imperial City pickpockets got their hands nailed to a wooden post, right where everybody could stare and toss stones at them.

"Please, sir," Wulf did his best to appear remorseful, which wasn't very difficult with tears of fear pricking at his eyes. "I'm sorry. I was so hungry."

The guard was kind, as guards went and with children of his own that Wulf of course knew nothing about. He told Wulf that first time offenders were only imprisoned, and nobody was going to nail him to anything for a stale bun. He did, though, drag the boy off to jail and locked him in a small cell.

True, it wasn't the kennels, as the heavily frequented and mostly overcrowded single-cell prison in the Flea Pit was called, but Wulf did not see what all the fuss about getting oneself thrown into jail was about, either. There was food, bedding and the roof did not leak.

He made sure to approach the same guard when next he needed a place to stay, since his father was raving back home. "I stole this," he said to the astounded man, holding out an apple. "Can I sleep in prison again?"

It was probably the first time in the history of the city guard that a criminal was punished by going free.

The soldiers didn't need him to clean or cook, but the guard relayed a rumour he had heard about a smith who surely needed help because his apprentice had broken his hand and with a very stern warning not to steal again that Wulf did not question for once second, he sent the boy on his way.

 

Ignatio, a foul-tempered blacksmith by profession, found a black-haired Nord child sitting on his front porch one morning.

"Did your apprentice heal his hand?" the boy asked, jumping up.

"No," the Imperial answered before he could stop himself, wondering how the brat knew and angry at Arius for being a blundering idiot.

"Then you need help," the boy stated.

Ignatio did not deign that comment with an answer except to tell the urchin to 'sod off'.

"I can chop wood," the boy offered and Ignatio cursed because the brat had been right in first place.

Wulf was allowed to do that, at least, and to work the bellows, which was sweaty, hard work and monotonous on top. He struck a good bargain with a part of his pay consisting of food and at midday he sat on the other side of the road, munching on a loaf of bread, a slice of cheese and some fruit. Ignatio had warned him that he didn't want him anywhere near his shop. When he saw how much swords cost, Wulf could understand his nervousness. He did not know the name of the numbers on the price tags, since there were _three_ of them, and he was quite sure it wasn't coppers or silvers, but _Septims_.

When he had proven himself a hard worker, Ignatio showed the boy how to repair damaged blades, how to break them out of their handles if necessary and to take down a notched edge and to sharpen and polish it so it looked like new again. It wasn't very difficult and there was an entire pile of old knifes and shears and scissors that people had brought to the blacksmith for fixing. It wasn't what earned Ignatio money, but someone still had to do it and Wulf turned out to be more adept than his former useless apprentice.

He did the work and with less complaining than that witless dullard who had been apprenticed to the blacksmith and Ignatio almost enjoyed working with the boy who was quiet and concentrated, yet always knew what his employer wanted him to do. However, the apprentice was paid for and the urchin was not and when ‘that oaf’, as Ignatio regularly called his trainee, returned, the boy had to go.

 

Thus live went on until roughly a year after Wulf's arrival in the Imperial City an epidemic of the smallpox broke out. Trade stopped as the city gates were closed – some blamed a Redguard caravan for carrying in the disease, others the Divines and there even were rumours coursing that the elves had something to do with it. All that was undisputable was that by the end of the third week the dead were carted out of the city by the hundreds.

Wulf woke up one day, feeling sick. His head and very bones hurt and his muscles were sore and weak.

"Faði."

Garmr grunted at his son's soft voice, but miraculously woke from his stupor, alerted by something in his son's tone. "What?"

Wulf tried to answer, but he couldn't. His throat felt swollen and it hurt, but that wasn't why he began to sob. He had seen the corpses. He did not want to become one of them.

Once the tears began to roll there was no stop to them and he only cried harder when Garmr's bunk creaked under the man's weight when he got up. His father was probably hung-over and angry with him at being woken and his weakness. Because if there was one thing real Nords did not do, it was to cry like a newborn babe.

Wulf expected being shouted at or maybe a cuff to the head, but not for a cool hand to rest at his brow and run through his hair.

"Y're runnin' a fever," Garmr slurred and a furrow of worry for his only child appeared between his brows. He drew the boy into a strong but comforting embrace and made soft noises of comfort that Wulf did not remember ever having heard from his father whilst he bawled his eyes out into the man's chest.

It would be the only outright good memory of his father that Wulf had and even so it was overshadowed by the very real fear of not living through the next days.

"Stay here," Garmr instructed his son once the boy had calmed down somewhat and wrapped him in blankets, stroking his back. "I'll be back as soon as I have seen to some things. Try to rest and get better."

Wulf nodded his acquiescence and tried to sleep, but his condition did not improve. It became worse.

An indeterminable amount of time later, it could have been hours or days, Wulf woke up when Garmr grabbed his him and he was conscious of being lifted and carried somewhere. Somewhere turned out to be one of the richer districts. The guards did not want to let them pass, but Garmr pulled a pouch full of gold coins from inside his shirt – he wasn't wearing his usual shabby clothes, Wulf noticed dimly, but garments that bordered on finery – and the soldiers opened a small gate and looked the other way as they walked through.

Their destination turned out to be a temple and a priestess clad in light grey robes opened a solid door when Garmr kicked it several times.

"I need a healer," the Nord barked as soon as the doors opened and made to move past the surprised woman.

"I am sorry, sir, but we do not work for charity's sake," she protested and stood in their way, arms crossed.

"I got money, don't you worry about it," Garmr answered, not deterred by her stern frown in the least.

The priestess took a heavy breath to refute them once more, but Garmr didn't let her get another word out edgewise.

"Lady," the Nord growled, clearly running out of patience. "I'll get your money. _But first you are going to heal my son."_ His tone indicated that bad things would follow if she did not comply at once.

With Garmr's boot in the doorway and his sword between him and the healer and with the furious Nord himself glaring her down she did the only thing she could and let them in, directing them to an empty booth at the temple's right wing.

Wulf got his own bed and apparently the healers got their money, because a while later they were poking and prodding at the boy who curled up in misery. The boy dozed fitfully through most of his stay, the chanting and the prayers, though he remembered being woken to soft golden light once and feeling a vague sadness when he thought he was going to die now.

He woke up later though, and didn't know what scared him more, the moans of the other patients, the lesions on his hands and body that he could glimpse whenever he forgot not to look, the priest's hushed whispers or the fact that his father had not left his side or touched a bottle. He knew because there was not a trace of the smell about him. Garmr was there, silent and sober, his presence somehow comforting and he ran his strong fingers over Wulf's scalp in soothing circles while telling wondrous stories of a faraway country called 'Skyrim' and fetching water whenever his son asked for it.

 

Two weeks later Wulf was released from the healers' care, free to leave the temple. His face itched and his father slapped his hand away when he tried to scratch and grabbed his other, giving his son a lift whenever he jumped over a puddle.

"Faði? What's with all the guards?"

Garmr didn't answer except with a well-practiced, vacant expression that would one day grace his son's face. Back then Wulf did not know how to read the posters that were at every street corner. He did wonder though how his father managed to pay the soldiers and priests, but he did not ask again.

The scars shocked him at first when he saw them, the scabs all aver his cheeks, chin and around his mouth.

"They'll fade. If not you'll just grow a beard when you're a man," Garmr commented, unconcerned. "Won't be a trace left."

 

"Boy!" Trenus hollered, half-leaning out of the doorway of the Lost Wench when he saw Wulf wandering the docks one evening a few months after his recovery. "Get your old man out of my inn!"

Garmr was sitting bent over a table, head buried in his crossed arms with a half-full (or half-empty, depending on one's mental attitude) tankard of ale in front of him. Said tankard was emptied entirely when Wulf pitched the drink over his father's head.

"Trenus is throwing you out," the boy said emotionlessly when his father's bloodshot eyes fixed on him.

"Is he now?" The other patrons backed away at the tone, but Wulf just caught the mug that went sailing in his (or rather Trenus') general direction and within the next couple of minutes he had coaxed his drunk father to come with him without a resulting argument or brawl.

"Boy!" Trenus shouted after the leaving pair, slightly impressed. "You good at handling drunks?"

He was and got hired by the innkeeper on the very next day. Serving ale was boring and cleaning up even more so, but the pay while not exactly good, was regular.

Sometimes the guests were interesting, as well. One night about a year from the day he had been given his first honest job ever, a bunch of mercenaries indulged him with stories and the evening was almost nice, even if they laughed at him when he asked if he could come with them and be a guard.

But that night the boy sat awake, restless, and dreamed once more of travelling, of making his way in the wide world.

'As what?' he thought with disgust. He didn't have a sword, not even an old one like his father.

And then: 'Faðir has a sword that he doesn't need.'

Wulf made up his mind that night. He scraped together all the coin he had saved up during his year of work, bundled up all his possessions and left without any goodbyes. Garmr wasn't going to wake up before it was time for his morning shift anyway and there was nothing left for Wulf to say to him.

It was folly for a twelve year old to set out without friends, experience or even a clear idea of a destination.

Yet sometimes necessity drives one to absurd decisions.

There was no living for him here, Wulf knew, young though he was. He'd either run a tavern himself if he was lucky or end up a street thug like so many others before him. One more piece of trash to be swept away when the guard raided the Flea Pit and rounded up all the criminals in one of their sporadic attempts to lower the criminality in the poorer districts. Then he'd wash up in the canal himself one day, another existence built upon a multitude of bad decisions and notable only for the amount of wasted opportunities. There had to be more to life than that.

The caravan rolled out of the city at dawn and Wulf followed. What food, coin and few possessions he had were safely stored in his stolen bag and he carried his father's sword slung across one shoulder.

He had made up his mind. They had to be going somewhere and anywhere was better than _here_.

 

xxxx

 

Holmar Redbeard was one of the four guards hired to protect the old man Rislav's caravan. They were all Nords here. Sliveig, the only woman in their company and a foul tempered vixen as one could be, Bronn their muscle and Sven who prided himself on being able to shoot a bird on the wing. Holmar yet had to see him perform the deed the lean warrior liked to boast about, but since he provided their dinner on many evenings the Redbeard kept his doubts to himself.

Only, now they had an unwelcome addition. The warrior looked over his shoulder to affirm whether the boy was still sticking to their group like a tick to a stray dog. He was. The child had been trailing after them ever since they had left the Imperial City. Holmar recognised him as one of the serving staff from the shabby low town quayside inn they had spent one evening in. And what a bad decision that had turned out to be. His stomach roiled whenever he thought back to said night.

Who would have thought that after surviving what passed for food in those parts and the cheap ale, the combination of which had him squatting in the bushes more often than he cared to think about, one street urchin would be their biggest problem?

They should never have given in to his pleas for stories of an adventurer's life, but the brat had been adamant in his demands, needling them with questions about their group's exploits. It wasn't everyday that the (admittedly, somewhat embellished) life of a caravan guard induced such wide-eyed curiosity and admiration. Sven had thought it was great fun. Well, he wasn't laughing now, ten days and two hundred miles later.

Step by step, day after day the kid kept up with their group, never venturing closer than two hundred yards, yet never quite out of sight, either.

He was stubborn; Holmar had to give him that. Refusing his absurd offer to join them as a guard had not deterred the boy one bit. But they were a warriors and not nannies and the brat had to go.

He was ripped out of his thoughts by an argument he had heard more times than he could count.

"Dammit, Bronn!" Sliveig shouted "That was _my_ sweetroll, you horker-faced gluttonous numbskull!"

"I didn't take it, woman," the burly Nord replied sourly.

The treat was not the first thing that had gone missing and despite his defensive attitude the Redbeard suspected Bronn; they all did. All that muscle had to come from something. Something other than dry rations and the occasional meat from a fresh kill. The rest of the day's march passed mostly in silence until nightfall had everybody bustling around, helping with erecting their camp. After months of working together everybody had tasks assigned and every action had been rehearsed until they could have manoeuvred around each other while blindfolded.

Each evening they drew straws for the order in which they would keep watch. There were three guards per night while the fourth was allowed to sleep through, so that everybody got a night's worth of undisturbed sleep every four days. That system prevented the warriors from suffering the consequences of constant work. It was fair, simple and kept everybody happy.

On one such night a couple of days later the softest of rustles alerted the Redbeard to a presence. He looked away from the dark forest around them, but could discern little with their campfire no more than coals glowing in the darkness. He did not glimpse down though, preserving his night-vision and pulled a dagger from its sheath at his belt. Now he only needed to approach quietly enough not to alert their visitor to him being there. Luck was on his side that moonlit night and a small shape was visible inside Rislav's wagon where they had most of their provisions stored.

The urchin twisted around, a look of surprise mixed with shock on his young face as out of nowhere Holmar's meaty fist grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and he was dragged from the wagon.

"You!" the warrior growled, satisfied with his catch. Now he knew where their food was disappearing. The little thief was going to rue the day-

The knee caught him in the balls by surprise. Holmar's grip slacked as starbursts of white exploded behind his eyes even as his private parts were engulfed by an inferno of agony. The warrior went on one knee with a grunt that was more of a high pitched keen and when he looked up it was in time to see the boy disappear into the night.

Damn that little bastard! Damn him to Oblivion and back!

"What's wrong, Holmar?" Sliveig teased the next morning. "You walk all crooked."

So they noticed. At least nobody had heard his whimpers when he pissed. "I know where our pies are," Holmar retorted. At least his little exploit had not been for naught.

"We all do," Sliveig snorted, dismissing him. "Bronn's been stuffing his face with them whenever he's been on watch."

"How often do I have to tell you, woman, I did _not_ take them!" the burly, black-haired Nord roared.

"He didn't," Holmar agreed and pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the kid trailing after them. " _He_ did. He's been robbing us ever since we set out, the little shit."

"Really?" Rislav's rheumy eyes strayed to the boy for a brief moment, his tone thoughtful. "I had not noticed."

"See?" Bronn grunted. "Should have known nothing good comes from that shithole of a place," he said, undeniably meaning the Imperial City.

"What kind of a guard does that make the lot of you, then?" Rislav enquired softly, rendering the rest of the party speechless.

"We could get rid of him," Sven suggested, but one look at the archer's face was enough to tell he wasn't actually considering it, just stating a possibility that none of them would fulfil. They were killers, one and all, plying their trade for coin, but even now they clung to the honour of their Nord heritage and none of them would kill an unarmed child. Beat him black for theft? Yes. But murder? That was another thing entirely. The boy should consider himself lucky they were kinsmen. Other mercenaries would have no such qualms.

Nonetheless, the old merchant spoke up against the lean man "You will do no such thing."

Sliveig rubbed her eyes and for once she and Bronn agreed when she said that "We cannot take him with us."

"We can," the merchant answered calmly to follow it up with "As far as the next town."

"Rislav- " Holmar did not get any further.

"He could have robbed you blind _and_ slit your throat while you slept," the old man reasoned. "Since he didn't, I believe it's safe to assume he won't." He whistled at the team of horses to stop and slowly climbed off the seat. The Redbeard moved to help him but was shooed off. "You stay here; you'll just scare him off."

Then the only thing they could do was share a disbelieving look and watch the merchant hobble off, heavily leaning on an oaken walking stick.

Rislav walked slowly but even so was evident that the boy was weary of him. He probably would have bolted if it had been anybody but the elderly, unarmed merchant to approach him. Up close it was evident how tired he was, the bruises under his eyes almost as dark as his hair that framed a youthful, but grubby face stained with the dust of the road and cheeks peppered with pockmark scars; tiny rough pinpricks that spoke of him being healed, and well at that if there was no more disfigurement.

"Hello, there," Rislav greeted the lad cheerfully only to receive a sullen glare in answer. "I am Rislav," he introduced himself, "And this is my caravan." Quite superfluous, considering how long they had been followed. "Why don't you come with me," he proposed, "And we will take you as far as the next town."

"Why?"

"Because you don't look like you could go much further and it's better than having you trail after us," the merchant replied.

"I asked if I could come with you," the boy said quietly, a spark burning behind his eyes that were not quite as dull with strain as they had been a moment ago.

"And you should have listened to Bronn when he said 'no' and stayed behind. This is no life for a child. But now that you are here we will get you to a place where you can stay. I swear it," the merchant said, but quickly changed to Nordic, thinking it might make the boy believe him more. "Á minn virðing, ek-heit."

An uncertain look was followed by a hesitant nod and, finally, an answer. "Góðr. Alright."

"But _only_ to the next town," Rislav pressed. "I want you to promise not to follow us again."

"Ek-heit. I promise." The boy sounded defeated.

The merchant nodded his head, satisfied and shuffled back to the wagon. "Come now, time's wasting and it looks like it's going to rain soon. What's your name, lad?"

"Wulf." The boy kept casting uneasy looks at the four guards that were eying him with various degrees of mistrust that bordered on outright hostility.

"How did you get past my guards, Wulf?" Rislav enquired once they were in hearing range.

"Wasn't hard," Wulfryk replied easily and pointed straight at Holmar "He snores. And she," the finger wandered on to Sliveig whose eyes narrowed dangerously. "She keeps whetting her blade and the thin one whittles wood."

Rislav noticed that his hirelings looked slightly abashed at having their weaknesses and favourite diversions pointed out by somebody who did not know them otherwise at all. The merchant turned back to the boy once he was sure they all saw his pointed look and waved his hand at the covered wagon. "Go on, climb inside."

The boy did as he was told and spent the remainder of the day asleep, clutching a battered old pack to his chest. He was up again in the evening and when Bronn barked at him to make himself useful he suggested he could chop wood. A faint disdain for the activity rang in his words, but he split the logs with sure strokes that spoke of a lot of practice.

Rislav always carried some extra wood in case it rained and they couldn't collect or find any suitable firewood. If they wanted warm dinner they still had to cook somehow.

"Where did you get the sword from?" Holmar asked when they were all sitting around a small, hissing fire, sipping watery stew that tasted faintly of raw greens.

"My father." A short answer and an elusive one, but a man's past was his own and nobody else enquired further.

The following days Wulf spent sitting next to Rislav in the front, watching the countryside pass by silently. The boy wasn't much of a bother, really, he knew how to stay out of the warriors' way and minded his own business. It was all the more surprising when he pointed into the distance. "There's people ahead."

"You have sharp eyes," the old man remarked. He rubbed his own wrinkled brow and sighed with regret "Mine are failing me, alas."

"I see them," Sven who had overheard their brief exchange joined them. The archer was shielding his eyes with one hand and squinting hard.

"How many?" Rislav wanted to know.

"I can't-"

"Eight," Wulf answered and when everybody looked at him funny he drew up his shoulders defensively. "What? I can count to ten."

"Climb into the wagon," the merchant ordered and the mercenaries complied without arguing, all except for Sliveig who hid her unsheathed sword beneath a cloak. They had done this before, apparently. "You too," the old man said to Wulf who was still sitting in front and he did as he was told. 

Inside, Sven had strung his bow and Bronn was warming up, stretching and rotating his massive arms. "Better to be safe than dead," Holmar remarked when he caught the boy staring at all the naked steel.

They had to get closer in order to see whom they faced and one old geezer and a woman were hardly a threat to anybody. The other group looked like a hunting party except that they bristled with weapons.

"These are as genuine huntsmen as Blacktyde's Marauders are seamen," Bronn grunted, peeping through the canvas at the seams.

"Aye." Sliveig's expression was grim as the warrior turned towards the leader of their group. "What do you say, old man? Take them head-on or go 'round?"

Rislav was no warrior and blind as a bat but his mind was as sharp as the knife Sliveig carried in case one of her male guards got ideas. "We go through and see what they want," he decided.

"I can take out two before they get close, maybe three," Sven muttered to nobody in particular.

"Three would be good," Holmar agreed. That would leave five bandits against four Nord guards, turning the odds decidedly in their favour. "You," he addressed Wulf. "Stay inside."

As it turned out the huntsmen did want something. Coin for passage and no small amount at that and they were getting bolder by the minute. Rislav played the senile, but agreeable grandfather with astonishing conviction. The bandits might have been more suspicious if they had not been mostly drunk and, as Bronn growled with a wrinkled nose, high on skooma.

Sven's first arrow took out a woman with a bow, just as they had planned and Sliveig drove her sword through the neck of the man who was harassing Rislav. The merchant quickly sought shelter behind his wagon, as the three other warriors poured out with fierce battle-cries.

That was about as far as things went as planned.

Sven was forced to avert a blow with his bow that broke the weapon. The string's backlash caught the archer in the forearm, ripping open a bleeding gash. Bronn and Holmar both dispatched a bandit each, but Sliveig was hit by an arrow through the thigh. She managed to block a blow that would have been fatal otherwise and Bronn rushed forward to aid her.

Sven was badly pressed with only a seax as a side-sword to defend himself with against his attacker and the remaining enemy archer was scrambling backwards to put a safe shooting distance between himself and the guards. Holmar went after him and with his arms shaking with fear the other man missed the attacking Redbeard.

Bronn was cussing and somewhere a dying man shrieked for his mother in a high-pitched voice that made Wulf want to cover his ears. When next he chanced a brief look outside there was no trace of Sven, but amidst the chaos Holmar had gone down; a streak of blood running down his brow and into his eyes. An axe was stuck in his shield and as the boy looked on, another bandit stepped on the wood to wrench his weapon free.

"Come on," Wulf whispered because suspicious as the guards had been of him, the highwaymen were indefinitely worse. The Redbeard was moving, but sluggishly and when the enemy finally got his weapon lose with a laugh full of maniacal glee, he had barely managed to roll to his knees.

Garmr's sword was lying in front of Wulf, sharp and deadly, but the boy had never used a proper weapon before.

Holmar blinked through the blood that robbed him of most of his vision. Fucking, filthy skooma-addicts, didn't know when to stay down when they had been hit. He looked up in time to see another bandit run towards him and the blurry shape of his attacker lift his axe and in that moment he realized that this was it for the warrior called the Redbeard.

The axe came down, spraying blood, brains and shards of bone; splitting skull like it would a ripe watermelon.

Holmar stared up to see that Wulf boy pull their woodcutting axe from the ruin of the bandit's head, only to drop into a crouch in the next instant. He ducked beneath the blow of the second outlaw who had arrived a split-second too late and buried his axe in the man's shin and both went down, the boy buried beneath the greater man's bulk.

The Redbeard's wits were slow to return, shock and injury having rendered him immobile for a moment, but he grabbed the other man's hair, ready to pound him to death with his bare fists, because there was no other weapon within reach.

He also was too late.

Wulf was lying flat and unmoving, while the bandit squirmed away, hands going to the knife sticking out of his neck.

Just as quickly as it had begun the fight was over.

"Holmar!" the Redbeard heard Bronn yell. "Are you alright!?"

"No thanks to you," Holmar replied and lay back, drenched in blood and covered in foliage and bits of his enemy to stare up at the sky. It really was the most beautiful thing he had seen. His head throbbed in time with the sound of nearing steps.

The last bandit was still writhing on the ground and clawing at the knife stuck in his throat until Bronn put him out of his misery with a well-placed blow. Wulf gingerly rolled to his knees and crawled closer and pulled the knife out of the corpse's neck and stood up wobbly, looking forlorn and clutching the bloody weapon in a white-knuckled death grip.

 

Later, when the bandits were dead and all wounds had been seen to, they were again sitting inside the wagon. Sliveig was asleep, having downed a healing potion, Holmar's head was bandaged and Wulf was wrapped in Bronn's warm fur cloak, to stop his shaking.

"Were these the first men you killed?" the burly warrior asked, in a kind voice that contrasted with his otherwise rough appearance and demeanour.

Wulf nodded in answer and drew the cloak tighter around himself with one hand and reached out with the other when Holmar handed him a mug.

"Drink," the Nord said simply.

The boy was visibly shocked, but did not cry, nor did he throw up, which was more than the Redbeard could say of his first kill.

"First time's always bad," Sven agreed, rubbing ceaselessly at his purple and swollen arm.

"Killing ain't as pretty as songs and stories make it sound," Holmar sighed. "Ya did the right thing, though. Sometimes there is no choice."

"Fusozay Var Dar," Wulf whispered into the cup and drained its contents with one gulp befitting any true Nord. The others might not understand the strange words, but the grimace that appeared on the boy's face was one they knew well and Bronn pounded him on the back until the youth stopped coughing.

"Here, we got something' for ya," Bronn pitched in, distracting the youth from the recent bloodshed.

Holmar smiled at the child's look of wonder. "You helped with killing those scum, you get to loot them," he declared and handed him a heavy, thick tome bound in rich leather with a decorative silver clasp to hold it closed. Nobody wanted a book, and an empty one at that. What good was it anyway for a bunch of illiterate guards?

Wulf was practically bouncing on the spot the next day to show his plunder to the elderly merchant.

"This is vellum," Rislav said, stroking one of the pages with his fingers.

"He did his part, we thought it was only fair we share the spoils with him," Sven sniggered. _He_ had a new raincoat, gloves, a whetstone, a phial of weapon oil and a pouch of pipe weed. The merchant shook his head. They had obviously thrown the trash none of them wanted at the boy, who was overjoyed with the gift.

"That's very generous of you," Rislav agreed, not fooled by their act of kindness for one second. "Since this book is probably worth more than everything the four of you have- ," the old man chuckled and savoured the long looks on his friends' faces.

"Are you bloody joking?" Sliveig moaned, voicing all their thoughts exactly.

" -Together," Rislav finished, seemingly oblivious to the groans behind him. Served the greedy bunch right for trying to be clever.

It was times like these when Holmar regretted being a Nord and abiding by a strict code of honour when it came to the distribution of goods amongst the guards.

 _Especially_ when young Wulf turned around, struck out his tongue at them and blew a rude noise.

 

"Do you know your letters, boy?" Rislav asked out of the blue one afternoon several days later.

"No."

In that moment the merchant felled a decision that would change a man's life forever. The boy was not stupid. Uneducated yes, but not dumb. The fact that he already fluently spoke three languages was proof of it. Rislav already barely saw a thing, but if he had somebody to take care of his ledgers, somebody who could read and write his life would be so much easier. None of his guards was of any use in that regard and he did not want to hire a scribe. But he had a willing helper, one he only needed to each. The merchant began to do so by drawing letters and little pictures next to them to help Wulf remember what they meant.

Once the boy had it memorized, he wrote the first short, simple sentence. "Now read it," the elderly merchant encouraged.

He got a scathing look in return and a tart reply of "I can't read."

Rislav waved away the boy's protests. "Read the signs," he told him. "One after the other. What _sounds_ do they make?"

"H – O – L – M – A – R," Wulf recited after some thought.

The merchant sighed, but patiently he ordered "Again, and faster."

"H-O-L-M-A-R. Holmar." Wonder was etched upon the boy's face the moment he finally understood.

Rislav smiled, pleased with his pupil's success. "And now the entire sentence."

"Holmar likes ale and wenches," Wulf said with a brief glimpse at the book and a cheeky smile.

"That's _not_ what's written here," Rislav sighed. Maybe this wouldn't be as easy after all.

"It's still true," Wulf protested.

"Aye," the Redbeard agreed good-naturedly.

Rislav sighed heavily again. Those two deserved each other. But once the boy understood the theory of reading, teaching him became a lot easier. He practically devoured every piece of script the merchant had to offer, reading them out loud at first and growing silent as he improved with practice. Afterwards Rislav taught Wulfryk the principles of penmanship and already his mind turned to basics of calculus that the lad would have to learn afterwards, if he was ever to make any sense of the ledgers and accounts.

"Different languages use different signs," the old man explained one evening. "The principle is the same. You could even invent your own script if you wanted to keep your writing a secret. It's not very difficult, but most codes can be broken by a clever mind."

It was to be one of their last lessons on that topic, as the others were staking a claim to participating in the boy's training. The sword that had belonged to his father was old and had seen much use, but it was in a pristine condition, as was the knife he carried.

Holmar now owed a life-debt to the boy, a serious thing for any self-respecting Nord. He would repay it over time teaching him everything he knew about swordsmanship and staying alive. Wulf was his protégée now.

He didn't know any techniques, but he was good at anticipating a person's next move, a skill that must have come from all the time he spent simply observing the people round him. With time and proper instruction he would make a terrific warrior. It was easy to learn the moves, but it was that sense that truly made an accomplished fighter.

The Redbeard began by teaching the boy the moves of hand to hand combat, brawling and wielding the knife, since he still had to grow into the sword. Wulfryk was resourceful, stubborn and gritty; he had proven as much already. There was one important, life-saving lesson left, one that could not be stressed enough. Halmar went down on one knee in front of his pupil, his hand lying atop the boy's shoulder.

"If ya can't win in an honest fight, lad, you can always– "

"Kick 'em in the balls?" Wulf asked with an innocent grin.

Sliveig burst out laughing. "We're keeping this one, alright. When you're done with him, Holmar, send him over. He's young yet; you can't expect him to fight like a man grown. I can show him a few tricks."

"He should learn how to shoot," Sven complained while Bronn muttered something about axes and how the boy was too scrawny to properly swing a two handed one.

Somewhere along the way, somehow, Wulf had found a family. A ragtag band of mercenary misfits and an old, half-blind merchant, but it was the closest he had ever had to one.

For the next four years they journeyed together. Or rather, Wulfryk stayed with the old man Rislav and whoever hired on the caravan. Holmar died a year later and Bronn took over Wulf's training, until he left the mercenary life behind entirely to settle down with a girl he had met during their travels.

Without another place to go, Wulf stayed. And when he was the only one left, when there was no more Sliveig and no Sven and many others who had enriched his life with their friendship for a while, when the world was one kind merchant poorer, he set out in search of his own fortune.

Destiny awaited.


	43. AWWY: EPILOGUE

Wulf travelled, just as he had once promised to do. Thirteen years after he set out on his own for the second time in his life he had been many things; a thief, a guard, a killer, a lover and a friend. And many more, some of which he admitted to without shame, and others that nobody knew of save for himself. A few deeds he could boast of and many he had to keep quiet about and a few he did not let his mind wander to – not voluntarily, and not without a great deal of alcohol.

One thing he never forgot though, and that was something his furry childhood friend had told him.

 _"_ _You should go to Elsweyr,_ _"_ Ra'Jira had said _._ " _The White Paws would welcome you. You'd fit right in_."

It was time to see how much truth those words contained. Wulf refilled his water canteen, wrapped his catch up and stored it away before shouldering his pack. Another two hours of walk awaited him if his guide was not mistaken and if he was, then there were bigger problems the Nord had to worry about than one broken promise from over a decade ago.

It had not been easy getting direction to the Red Rock Desert, and even more difficult getting somebody to show him the way, but a small, almost human-like Khajiit knew of the White Paws and for the right pay he had been willing to be Wulf's guide through this unforgiving land.

They set out early, because here the sun rose quickly and shone down without mercy throughout the whole day. Wulfryk had learned to keep his head wrapped in a wet cloth to avoid getting sunstroke and after several weeks of travel and some painful burns his skin turned a rich brown, he could have passed for half a Redguard.

The valley he had been looking for opened up before him seemingly out of nowhere. Wulf could have sworn there was nothing but rocks around him for miles around, but suddenly there was a deep gorge and in the shadow of the high canyon walls the blue band of a river was visible and around it the lush green of plants. How anything could grow in this place was beyond him, but there were terraces overflowing with crops on both sides of the cliff and from where he stood he could feel cool air wafting upwards. A slight breeze was like a blessing in the desert where the air was stagnant, full of dust and stiflingly hot.

Wulf breathed in deeply the scents of life around him, because he definitely could smell cooking and it made his stomach growl. He paid his guide and the cat-man quickly took his leave, not wanting to enter the clan's territory, because ‘it was complicated’, as he put it.

The Nord did not wait for any doubts to assert themselves, but set out to descend a narrow path that led steadily downwards. He was being watched, he knew, but only after a while did a band of Khajiit warriors approach him. They were curious and obviously apprehensive about his presence, but not outright hostile and he greeted them in Ta'agra to their visible relief and delight.

Wulf knew enough of the language from conversing with travelling Khajiit and those usually were free with sharing their knowledge after a friendship had been struck up. He did not hold back telling them why he was here, about his invitation and his old friend from Bruma.

The leader listened with perked ears and finally nodded his agreement to accompany Wulf to the bottom, where he would have to wait until the matriarch deigned to see him and confirm his story.

"Bandits often make our lives difficult," the Khajiit explained their situation. "The Red Rock Desert does not give much to live. It is easier to take from others than to till this barren earth. Thus, we are very protective of our clan, and our mother more so."

"Can you take something to her?" Wulf asked the warrior and carefully, not wanting to startle anybody with sudden movement, he pulled his knife from his back and handed it hilt-first to the cat-man. "It might speed things up."

The Khajiit appraised it with keen, dark yellow eyes. "A fine blade. En'Sharo will do as you ask," the warrior finally decided. "Shall I pass on your name?"

"No." Wulf grinned. "You wouldn't know how to pronounce it anyway."

His escort laughed, delighted at the flash of wit and Wulf was allowed to cool his feet in the river whilst waiting for En'Sharo to return.

 oooo

Ri'Jira woke at the soft sound of claws against rock, the Khajiit equivalent of knocking. She called out to 'enter', hoping that it was not another raid from the north.

"There is a man here who wishes to see you," En'Sharo announced without greeting or apology, but as her eldest child he was excused from any formalities.

"A man?" There was nothing for men here and none had visited these parts of Elsweyr recently. "What does he look like?" she asked, rising and stretching elegantly.

"Like all men," En'Sharo retorted, but relented under his matriarch's sharp gaze. "Black mane," he recounted what little he could remember of the foreigner "Blue eyes. Whiskers."

"Beard," Ri'Jira rectified absentmindedly and felt her heart speed up with excitement. When the other Khajiit presented her with a familiar knife, there was no doubt left about the stranger's identity.

 oooo

"You have grown," the matriarch greeted her friend while he stood from the boulder he had been sitting on. The boy had been tall for his age, but smaller than her. The man had over a foot on the Khajiit and probably weighted more than twice as much as she did and he carried himself like a trained warrior, not a thieving street urchin.

They did not know each other after all this time, but there were fond memories on both sides and Wulf 's smile was familiar, not having changed in years. "Hello, Ra'Jira," the Nord greeted and unwrapped something from his pack that made the cat-woman's nose twitch. "I brought us some fish."

"Ra'Jira is Ri’Jira now," the Khajiit corrected with a feline grin of her own. "Your manners have improved, Young Wolf," she said, deliberately mispronouncing his name as she had done on their first meeting.

She noticed the circle of curious onlookers gathering around them and spread her arms. "Szarij doha'jiit," she called out so that everybody nearby could hear her and with a courteous bow of her head she announced "As the matriarch of the White Paws, this one bids you welcome!"

 oooo

It took no more than that for Wulf to become a member of the clan. He was given a place of his own to stay and everybody welcomed him warmly after the matriarch had spoken for him.

Living in Elsweyr was strange, more so than in any other country he had been in, with the exception of Black Marsh maybe. It took him a while to get to know all customs and his blunderings provided a great deal of entertainment for the cat-people, some who had never seen a human before.

The Khajiit slept through the day, but once the sun set, the valley came to life and its inhabitants gathered to engage in social activities. Cicada chirred loudly in the greenery and small, colourful lampions hung from the branches. The air was rife with scents of exotic spices and the sounds of the desert, and the sky was as clear and the stars as bright as nowhere else.

It was easy to understand why the religion of this folk was centred around the orbs, when the moons appeared not only huge, but also close enough to touch, if only one stretched far enough. Wulf knew of their beliefs and he respected them, even if the very concept was strange to him.

Odd was also the modesty of the cat-people; exposing fur on a torso was deemed both unsightly and offensive. They clad themselves in brightly coloured _budi,_ shawls, and _shi'arii,_ togas, from a silken, flimsy material that did not actually cover anything. Wulf had a very long discussion with some elderly Khajiit whether chest hair counted as ‘body fur’.

Furthermore, the Khajiit did not understand property as Men or Mer did. A few things were personal belongings and off limits to others, such as a warrior's weapons and anything a worn on a person. Wulf learned that this was the reason Khajiit were so fond of jewellery, because whilst snatching a coin pouch was fair game, those items were ‘untouchables’, and their taking away was considered very rude. But most things were shared, stolen, snatched away and stolen back. Everybody just walked off with what they needed and it became theirs and when somebody else needed it, they took it back.

Wulf spent many hours cursing and chasing after ‘lost’ belongings before he finally gave up and accepted their disappearance. Strangely, with the exception of his feather quills that went missing on a regular basis, every object returned to him at some point.

Homes were no boundaries. The Nord woke up a couple of times to several uninvited Khajiit sitting around his table and talking, or cooking or simply lounging on the pillows in a Moon Sugar-induced daze.

The food was sweet and spicy, the main dishes being cake and pudding, sugar-meats and fondue, everything seasoned liberally with Moon Sugar. The sugar came from canes that were cultivated in the Tenmar jungles in southern Elsweyr that was much more civilized and wealthy than the wild, paltry north.

There, it became evident how ancient the culture was and the ruins of hundreds of cities stood testimony to a time of long-lost glory. Almost all had been buried beneath sand or swallowed by the jungle and Wulf had visited many, wondering at their erstwhile splendour.

When he returned, the Nord participated in games of stealth and pickpocketing, which was an art and a fun pastime entertainment and not a crime, as it was everywhere else. He put his newly learned abilities of stalking to the test when he went hunting with En'Sharo, Ri'Jira's son. Wulf trained and fought with the warriors, studying the basics of the Whispering Fang and the Rawlith Khaj, the combat of empty hands. Claws were a definite advantage, but not a necessity as he proved one day.

"Come here, kitty, kitty, kitty," Wulf taunted one of his adversaries who hissed back with his ears flattened and though it earned the Nord a nasty scratch on the thigh, in the next attack he was able to pick the leaping Khajiit out of the air by the skin on his neck.

"This is most embarrassing," the warrior lamented with an unhappy twitch of his tail and Wulf made it up to him by hosting a huge party with free drink and inevitably half of the clan came to join in the carousing.

He was happy. He loved this extraordinary, untamed country and his friends of whom there were more than he could keep track of.

And yet, Wulf became twitchy as more time passed, he took to wandering the desert alone at night and wondered what lay in the distance beyond his sight.

 oooo

"What troubles you?" Ri'Jira asked her friend when it became obvious that he was upset over something.

Wulf had lived two years with the clan, or rather it had been two years since he had arrived. He had journeyed to the south of Elsweyr and to Hammerfell, and it had stilled his wanderlust for a while. But it always came back, the urge to move on. There was a great deal of the world out there that he had not yet seen and it beckoned to him. He was destined to be a vagabond, drawn to the endless road as a moth was to flame and not able to resist whatever it was that drove him.

"You are leaving," Ri'Jira remarked, perceptive as ever. He did not think there had ever been a person alive who could read him as easily as she did. Wulf had invested a great amount of time and energy in becoming a master at not giving anything away – if he did not want to.

It was easier to agree than it would have been to approach her with goodbyes after all she had done for him and the welcome he had received from her and her people. "Yeah," Wulf sighed with a melancholic smile.

She had been wrong, the Khajiit realized. He was not leaving. He had already left. "Where to?" Ri'Jira enquired.

"Skyrim."

"Your home." If anybody could empathize, it was her. The Khajiit knew what it was to long for home after having spent much time abroad. Ri’Jira had experienced the ache in the heart and she knew that he did not belong here, in the south with its deserts of rock and warm sands, but in the north where his road would lead him through snows bitter cold.

"Raj var zazij daeneri va." _All is as it should be_.

"Yeah," Wulf chuckled, glad that even without words there was an understanding between them.

"I'm going home."


	44. Bruma: 1

A weatherworn sign marks the crossroads upon the Old Road. Two arrows, bearded with lichen, point the ways to Bruma and Weyrest. Their surface feels slick beneath the traveller's calloused fingers as he traces grooves that are distinguishable by touch only, lying lost and forgotten under their guise of moss. The wood is soft and spongy with rot, and where the man's nail digs in it leaves a small mark of its own to be discovered by a future wanderer.

A white cloud forms with the man's exhale, quickly dissipating and becoming one with the dense mists that streak their way through the silent forest and up the mountain range, as if the rock itself was a giant hearth in the broiling cauldron of the valley, and the white vapours merely lazy tendrils of smoke.

Were another soul present, then the sound of his sigh would reveal to them longing and exasperation, and the merest hint of a story left untold. But the only witnesses to the miniscule gesture are tall firs and larches, naked here, where the land is still in the grip of the winter. They stand shrouded in fog, mute spectators of an outlaw's homecoming.

The man's hand falls away from the sign, then slowly, with the same deliberate care others reserve for places of worship, rises to push back his hood. Black hair falls to frame his face, lightly curling with the humidity. The Nord wipes his damp brow. Despite it being his daily companion, rain still feels like a novelty to him.

His gaze turns to the mountain range before him, his thoughts to the last great leg of the journey awaiting him. At the northernmost end of the Empire the Jerall Mountain Pass constitutes the only link between Cyrodiil and Skyrim within a hundred miles. The path is by far the best-travelled one, widened by hundreds of feet into a road, older than any Imperial highway. Once, Cloud Ruler Temple stood guard over the pass, but the invasion of Aldmeri forces after the war left the ancient Blade stronghold in ruins.

The man learned of the purge of Bruma by word of mouth only, snatching up the rumours of his hometown in alehouses and brothels with the same eager desperation a stray gobbles down any morsels thrown to him. He had been fortunate to escape the wrath of the Thalmor when he had been forced to flee, a boy of merely nine years.

Before he sets out again, the Nord beats his staff against his shoes in an attempt to get rid of the excess mud and foliage. More will accumulate, lending real weight to his every step, in addition to the symbolic one already present. Then he hoists his pack higher and strides forth with the measured, mile-devouring stride of a man well-adjusted to the nomadic life.


	45. Bruma: 2

From afar Bruma looks much like Wulf remembers it; painted in the colour of sludge that it nearly drowns in every spring, sleepy and embedded into the mountainside. Drifts of dirty, late snow pile up against the sides of the timber-built cottages, hiding from the sun's weak rays. The many chimneys cough up smoke that becomes one with the low-hanging clouds and perfumes the cold air with the warm aroma of burning wood.

The smell more than the sight is what tinges Wulfryk's return with an excruciating, exquisite pain. The town feels way too familiar for a place that hasn't been his home in two decades.

It is with relief that he notices signs of change.

The road is the first to catch his eye, made out of slabs of stone where there was only dirt before, packed with straw and wood shavings to fill in the mud-holes that always appeared after Rain's Hand. To Wulf's right are the stables where Ragvir no longer tends to the horses, his life-blood taken by Garmr's sword in tribute for their escape. To his left he can see the gatehouse where actual soldiers, and just not a voluntary guard of townsfolk see to it that the order and peace are kept.

The Bruma accent, Cyrodiilic tempered with the softer melody of the Nordic language, comes easily, at least until the gatekeeper asks,

"Where are you from, stranger?"

"From the south," Wulf replies, knowing that his face will betray him, even before his voice does.

The guard nods along. "Trouble's brewing up north. Best ya know if ya plan on crossing the pass."

Wulf gives the man his thanks for the warning, even if this is hardly news to him. The wayside taverns were all ripe with talk of civil unrest in Skyrim, though the possible outbreak of a war did not deter many travellers bound for the far north. After all, for any merchant willing to take a risk, conflict and opportunity often go hand in hand.

It is such hunters of fortune who crowd the inns and establishments offering a mat and a morning meal for those with tight purses and loose lips. Where the crooked alleys offer some protection from the wind, Wulfryk passes gaggles of folks huddling around lit braziers and talking in hushed voices among themselves. They ignore him same as he does them; just one more Nord steering homeward – be it to reunite with family, or lured by the prospect of making a name for himself in the battles to come, or by the promise of mercenary work.

And while the latter may indeed be of interest to Wulf, tonight he is bound only for the upper part of town. The common room of the Jerall View Inn is packed so tightly, he has to leave his gear in the entrance hall, right under the coat hooks, before he can shoulder his way to the bar. The proprietor's eyes go wide at the sight of gold, and she hurries to oblige him when Wulf asks for,

"Your best room."

Apparently, while willing to indulge in the food and beverages the inn offers, none of the journeying peddlers want to risk spending too much of their coin before they have the opportunity to make more.

Wulf doesn't care that his resources of Septims are dwindling, fast. Less metal means less weight to lug around, and he wants the comfort of a bed before he'll be back to knocking at farmers' doors, trying to convince them that his stories are worth what little they can spare.

The innkeeper – her name is Martha, he learns past the first flight of steps – leads him all the way up to one of the only two rooms that offer privacy. It is located right under the gabled roof and while he doesn't doubt that outside the Jeralls are very much still present, the view is sadly lacking.

Martha prepares the room for inhabitation with the brisk, absent-minded mannerism of somebody who not only knows every move by heart, but has performed them countless of times. She is proud to share the history of the building with him while she works. Did he know that the Hero of Kvatch had once rented this very room? Or that Martin Septim had been a patron, also?

Wulf shakes his head at that and smirks at the thought of sleeping in the same bed as a descendant of the Septim line, even if they are a few hundred years apart. A legendary emperor is a step up from the livestock he usually has to share his space with, he guesses.

Sheets and towels appear on the bed in record time, and by the time Wulfryk has rid himself of his boots, a fire has already consumed the kindling in the hearth and a pleasant warmth spreads through the room, chasing away the chill. Martha collects his travel-stained clothes last, promising that his laundry will be done within the day, and Wulf enjoys the tranquillity that descends over the room when the door closes after her.

He spins around to take in his surroundings; from the inviting, if probably deceiving thickness of the mattress, now clad in crisp white linen, and over the hardwood furniture to the red velvet chaise lounge in front of the hearth.

Once, for a boy, this establishment was the height of imaginable luxury.

Wulf smiles, though there is a hint of something underlying the expression that belies the outward appearance of happiness. The once-plush fabric of the long chair is thin, in danger of ripping in places. The wood is rough with grooves and scratches. Marring its dark surface, a lighter circle marks the spot on the nightstand where uncountable guests before him must have put down their water mugs.

The entire room gives off the appearance of comfort, worn with use that it is; welcoming, but hardly special.

Maybe come nightfall it will regain its magic.

Wulfryk hurries up with the business of washing up and making himself presentable, and hastily dons whatever clean clothes he can get a hold of. He all but jumps into his boots only to find them unpleasantly cold. Almost immediately dampness begins to soak into the fabric of his socks, but he prefers the familiar discomfort over having to sit here, with nothing to do but to contemplate the disenchantment that adulthood brings.

Instead, Wulfryk sets out to find the shack that Gaio had insisted was haunted. He takes a few wrong turns on his way to the stonemason's quarter, walking the narrow alleys with relish rather than haste. He fancies he can see familiar footprints in the frozen mud, half- washed away by the flow of time. It is as well. The man he is would not fit in a boy's footprints. He decides to follow them nonetheless, a last goodbye he was never given the time to say.

They lead him to a house that must have seen better times once upon a time, but probably not within this century. Its roof has given away, and it is overgrown with wild grass and moss, with one particularly optimistic sapling sprouting from the doorway. It is the kind of place travellers are usually cautioned to avoid; where wild nature come to life and is said to not look kindly upon human intruders.

He can see a gang of children forming a cautious half-circle around the structure, and after testing that the wall will not crumble under a little pressure, leans his hip against the stone and watches the scene. A much younger boy with windswept, coal-black hair and blue eyes is the only one not hanging back. "I'm not afraid of ghosts," he proclaims loudly.

If Wulf had known back then that ghosts were very much real, he might have done the sensible thing and not tempted fate. But sensible has never been Wulf's strong suit, grown-up or not. The boy takes a defiant step forward, visibly enjoying the muted gasps around him.

Wulf takes a step back at the same time and, after one last fond look, moves on. There is so much more for him to rediscover, and he is delighted to see Darius' Nose – named in honour of the man whose most prominent feature was his snotbucket's resemblance to a twelve foot tall rock – jutting out of the cliff that serves as a support for the poorest houses of this area. When he had run the streets with the other kids, climbing it had been a trial of bravery and strength. Wulf had made sue to excel at it, just so he could rub it in Matus' face, when the other boy couldn't haul his plump self up the long ridge. It had been retribution for all the times the butcher's son had shown up munching on a piece of ham or smoked sausage, unwilling to share.

And then Marcius had been so unfortunate to slide down from the top and to break his arm, and the other children were forbidden to go near it again.

Impulsive recklessness had spurned Wulf on to find a new challenge, to accomplish the forbidden – and in an act of defiance he had scaled the city walls. His heart had pounded wildly with every balancing step he had taken; so tall and foreboding they had seemed!

Wulfryk rubs his hand against the rough rock in passing, and it comes away covered in mortar. His touch sends small stones trickling down, and the gaps they leave provide plenty of foot and handholds.

Only a child could have imagined that by climbing the walls had he conquered the world.

But it wasn't nearly as fun doing it all alone, so when the excitement had waned, Wulf had followed the pack, ready to dash onwards, into new mischief.

He had always had a knack for running into trouble; quite literally. Wulf recalls the eventful day he met Ra'Jira, who is now the matron of the White Paws. The clan had taken him in as one of their own when, years later, he had come to call upon his old friend.

Wulf feels a brief pang of something it takes him a while to identify – it is the closest he has ever come to feeling homesick. But for all that he had loved living there, his place was not in Elsweyr. Differences could be bridged, but no amount of acceptance could get rid of them entirely. Khajiit ways have taught Wulf to take, but not to keep, and of all the friends he had made on his journeys, it was the itinerant cat-people who did not try to stop him, who understood that his path was that of snow and hoarfrost, and not scorching sands and sun-warmed bedrock.

There is no lingering trace of Ra'Jira left in the house she had rented during her brief stay in Bruma; it is now home to another.

Wulf moves on.

On its pedestal near the northern gate, the statue of the Hero of Kvatch is missing its head.

Wulfryk takes the first left and lets it lead him back to the main street. On the corner between the Blood and the Iron street, he passes the Lusia residence. Ivy has reclaimed the ground storey, and behind rusty bars, the once lush garden that used to bring passers-by to a stop, is wild and overgrown.

Caecilia had lived here, the blond darling girl of her parents. Her father had been a steward to the count and she had always worn the prettiest dresses, and played with exotic toys that her mother brought back from as far as High Rock.

Wulfryk doesn't stop. This place holds no memories worth holding on to. He suddenly longs for company, but in the middle of the busy street the masses part to flow around him. The people keep their heads down and those whose eyes are not on their feet hide their faces in fur-trimmed hoods.

For all that he knew most of them when growing up, Bruma is full of strangers.

Even the great chapel of Talos, the monument to the glory of the Empire, is gone. No sign of the man-god and patron of Bruma remains, safe for the bare walls that used to house his temple. Inside, the structure is blackened, as if from soot, but instead of being given up on and abandoned, it has been converted into a marketplace. Wulf feels a brief flash of pride and admiration for the practicality of the people of Bruma.

They may have lost much, but the bright canvases that span overhead, the heavy rugs decorating the walls – salvaged no doubt, the cries of the hawkers and the rich smells tell a story not of defeat, but of resilience.

The Nord strolls through the market, taking his time to feast his eyes on all the gaudy, ornamental, and ofttimes useless trinkets he doesn't need and cannot afford – and not strictly for their price. He finds all manner of jewellery, a beautifully carved miniature shrine, and dark drinking horn set in a silver holder, and each time he moves on quickly before the merchants spy him inspecting their wares.

One stall further towards the back seems to be particularly busy. Wulf makes his way over slowly, drawn by the milling crowd. His height gives him the advantage he needs to peek over heads when he stands on the tips of his toes. He does so, and looks right into the face of the past. Wulf hangs back until the last customer has gone, his purchase clutched to his chest to preserve the heat.

The dark haired and green-eyed girl behind the counter used to be the most popular one in all of Bruma. This at least seems to have remained the same.

Her eyes are on her stall, not flickering up at the sound of approaching footsteps. "Apologies sir," she says, "I'm all sold out."

"That's a shame. I always liked Myri's meat pies best."

"You knew my– ," she looks up then, and Wulfryk can see the exact moment she recognizes him, realization flooding her eyes. For a while all motion ceases, and the world around them is reduced to insignificant background noise. "Wulf?" she breathes, "Is that... is it really you?"

She still is pretty, but no longer radiant, the bright colours of youth washed out of her.

"Gloria," Wulfryk replies. "Still as beautiful as I remember you." The deep timbre of his voice lends the words more meaning than he intends, and he wishes he could take them back almost as soon as they leave his lips.

She laughs, clear and loud with surprise, and for a brief moment it reveals a glimmer of the girl he used to know. Back when there had been mud splatters on her dress and she had used to wear her hair in twin braids and not the bun of maternity.

"Frog-eyed, and hog-faced, I believe you called me once."

"Did I?" Wulf asks and hoists an eyebrow, the expression of innocence belied by his grin. That day is still sharp in his memory, after all. "My manners improved drastically since then. I'm a perfect gentleman."

Gloria's dimples disappear as she is no longer is smiling, and her hands clasp the counter with enough force to make the delicate bones visible beneath the skin.

"And I am a woman married."

Does she think really that– ? After all this time?

"Gloria." Wulf shakes his head, chuckling despite the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Although I am fairly certain you are possessed of them, I have no interest in your womanly charms." Before she can answer, he continues, "It's been a long time. I'd merely like to hear the news and you look like you could do with a stiff drink."

"I need to make dinner for my family."

Had so much time really passed; enough to start and raise a family? To him it seems impossible, his own years lost in the rush of life. Maybe time works differently here.

"Go see to your family," he tells her and takes a step back. "And if you still want to know about whether Mermen really do live in Lake Rumare, come see me.

He can see curiosity and distrust war on her face and wonders – does she fear him?

She nods, and he can see that he is losing her. Wulf turns to leave. He does not expect for her to call after him, and the sound of her voice, stronger now that he no longer crowds her, gives him pause. "Where are you staying?"

"The Jerall View," Wulf throws back over his shoulder.

"Like you always said you would," she muses, and he is surprised that she would remember such a random piece of information.

"Aye," Wulf agrees.

He heads back to the inn then, taking the shortcuts that had served him well many times before.

The Jerall View has indeed undergone a transformation after nightfall. With the bar open, evening visitors pour in and the air is thick with the heady vapours of so many people crowded together and the atmosphere is vivid, loud and drunk.

Wulf doesn't stop to socialize, but instead seeks the solace of his room. Almost immediately he wishes he had stayed downstairs, but he does not feel like going back down. Wulf washes his hands in the basin on the dresser, and picks up the brush he set down next to it before. He studies the criss-cross of lines etched into his palms, darker rivers set in the ridged plains of his hands that no amount of scrubbing will remove. At least he knows that the dirt of the past months is from the road alone. Mud washes off easier than blood only as far as the mind is concerned.

Wulfryk is surprised when Martha comes to tell him that he has a visitor.

It can only be one person. Wulf changes his shirt to something a little more presentable now that he no longer wears a coat to hide it. On the way out his hand closes around the scabbard of his sword before he becomes aware of the action. He wavers about whether to take it or not. In the end, habit wins out. A sword isn't ideal for a fight indoors, but it has its uses, even if its only purpose is to distract potential attackers from the smaller, deadlier knife at his back.

"You promised me a drink," Gloria says in ways of greeting.

Wulf raises his eyebrows playfully, but gives in, "I guess I did. Go on then; pick whatever you like." He invites her to sit; and she does.

"Anything?"

"Anything," Wulf assures her. He has enough coin left, and the means to acquire more if the need arises.

She orders a ginger and canis root ale, and giggles when the bubbles tickle her nose.

He leans back and puts his right foot up on a nearby chair; carefully so that the visibly intoxicated Bosmer lady only half-occupying it doesn't notice. Under the table his sword leans against his leg, a comforting weight. He has to consciously keep his hands on the table to prevent himself from toying with the rough leather wrapped around the hilt.

Now where to begin?

"How is the family?" Wulf enquires politely.

"Fed and well, thank you."

It's not much to go on, and the brevity of the answer does not encourage him to dig deeper. Wulf decides on a safer approach. "Not much seems to have changed."

"You did," Gloria replies immediately, a wicked glint in her eyes. They look bigger in the dim light of the common room; she must have done something with them, just as she has pinned up her hair. Her fingers lightly trace the hem of his shirt. "Is that brocade? Where did you get something this fine?"

'From a dead man,' he thinks and rubs his knuckles over the fabric. "I took it off a merchant king," he drawls, if only to see her eyes widen. "So who is the lucky husband?"

"Matus," she says, more to the glass than to him, and leans back again. A blush colours her cheeks a healthy rose colour.

Wulf wonders, Why does she suddenly look ashamed?

He pulls a face, the expression identical to one a boy a decade ago would have worn and says smoothly, "My condolences."

She regains her footing quicker than he expects, and retaliates with, "Speaking of family; what's your father doing these days?"

Wulf barely suppresses the flinch at the mention of his father. He can feel the man's shadow hanging over him, here more so than anywhere else. "Probably decomposing," he replies with faked cheer, "Though I cannot say for sure. Last time I saw him was a long time ago."

Gloria nods and takes another sip of her drink. "The world's a better place without him."

Wulf is resigned to the stab of pain he still feels after all this time, along with the knowledge that she probably is right.

The situation requires a drastic change of topic, so Wulfryk picks the first thing that comes to his mind. "I passed by the Lusia manor today, but it seemed empty."

"They left with Cecil for the Imperial City," Gloria tells him sadly, "About a year after you were gone."

The year after his father had taken him to the Imperial City. The year also known as Peryite's. Suddenly he no longer wishes to know.

"They returned without her the next. Her parents didn't stay for long, they moved on, to Skingrad."

"I'm sorry." He isn't sure whether he means it. A vain little girl, she didn't deserve this fate. But then – who did?

"Thank you." It sounds more like a formality than any real thanks. "They told us you were dead, too."

Of course they would have. Wulf snorts. "I guess this proves what Vinicia said; that I'm worse than the plague."

Gloria starts to shake with laughter, cheeks round around a mouthful of her drink.

"Is the old bat still around?" Wulf asks, glad to have found a topic they can both make light of.

She shakes her head and slaps her palm against the table, and eventually manages to force down the liquid without spilling any of it. Gloria shoots him a filthy glare that Wulf laughs off, and takes a deep breath now that she can breathe again.

"Standarr, no," she mutters. "She left her husband for some fancy Breton dandy half her age. The whole town was in uproar. You didn't hear any of it?"

"No?" Wulf rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. "But do go on," he prompts. Digging up dirt is so much more fun when it's not him buried underneath all of it.

Wulf soaks up all the gossip and rumours and doesn't care that they are considered old news, and when there is nothing more to be said on that front he asks, "And what of the others?"

And so she tells him.

 

xxxx

 

"Gloria, is this man bothering you?"

A meaty hand lands on the woman's shoulder. It belongs to the man standing behind her. For somebody of his girth, his approach had been astonishingly stealthy. Perhaps because people searching for each other in inns is nothing of interest.

Now that he senses a potential conflict, Wulf leans back, to better look the new arrival in the face. It is none other than Matus. When Gloria said that her family is well and fed, she might have mentioned how well-fed her husband truly is.

"I'm right here, you know," Wulf says sweetly.

"Oy!" The husband is apparently not in the mood to barter words. "Leave my wife be you... scoundrel!"

Wulf does the only thing any other reasonable person in his stead would as well: he bursts out laughing. Wild, impulsive and armed with the knowledge that there are few acts as casually cruel as dismissing a man in this manner.

But then he had been their scapegoat for years, laughed at because of the dirty, ripped state of clothes, his lack of toys – or mother – the disgrace that his father was. All it had accomplished was to thicken his hide, to teach him to attack first and to hit harder than they ever could.

The joke is lost on the butcher. His complexion resembles that of the meat he sells when he draws himself up, and booms, "You think I ain't serious? Yeah? Fight me, if you dare!"

He has his fists up, so this has to be serious. Wulf is perplexed at the whole procedure. This isn't how tavern brawls work. The etiquette is to grab your opponent's head and make him kiss the table before he can shank you. Bruma is still part of the Empire, after all. These folks have spent far too much time living amongst Nords.

Everything about this situation is wrong. Wrong is also Matus' stance, the way he holds his arms, the flimsy fist he makes. He'd sooner break his own hand than hurt Wulf, even if by some miracle or Shor's guiding hand he managed to hit a vulnerable area.

"Do you have one of these?" Wulf's words fall soft as a lover's caress before he pulls out his sword, still sheathed, and holds the pommel under Matus's nose that he may get a good smell of the sweat and blood saturating the raw leather.

The other man recoils with wide eyes. Maybe he's afraid that Wulf will club him over the head with the pommel. If so, it is a legitimate fear.

"No?" Wulf prompts softly, voice still pleasantly light, and uncurls himself from his lounging position with a cat's fluid grace. When he rises to stand at his full height he feels a dark, savage pleasure at how small the other man becomes all of a sudden. "Then what are you going to fight me with?"

Matus stares, and then lowers his gaze to his fists. He had always tried to outdo Wulf. Climbing, fighting, it did not matter how often the younger boy planted his face in the ground, he always came back for more.

It wasn't that Wulf had been so much better, or stronger, no. The difference between them was that Wulf had the necessary rage and dogged determination that drove him to excel, whereas Matus, who had never lacked a comfort in his life, had never learned to fight tooth and nail for what he took as granted.

"Do I know you?" Matus asks abruptly.

"Uh-huh. Unfortunately, the displeasure I feel at our acquaintance can only be matched by your repugnance whenever you brave the looking-glass, Matus," Wulf drawls.

Gloria actually hiccups a laugh. She is tipsy already, he notices with an annoyed glance sideways.

It would be easy to mistake the situation, and for a moment a part of Wulf delights in the doubt on Matus' face.

Maybe his wife has a reputation. Gloria had always liked the attention she gotten from the boys. She had kissed him once, behind the chapel, if only to make Matus jealous. He had sucker-punched her, then, and stomped home, trying to wipe his cheek clean with a fistful of snow.

The memory sparks a feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach. Baiting these folks is like ripping legs off a grasshopper. If he wishes to indulge in petty violence, he can so elsewhere, without ruining their perfectly mundane lives. After all, what wounds they had dealt him had long since scabbed over.

He turns his head when Gloria swats his arm.

"You promised to be nice!"

Wulfryk tosses back his ale and sits back down, ordering the outraged husband to do the same with a brief gesture. His wife receives a roguish grin in answer. "I'm very much still a liar, I'm afraid."

Then he calls for another round of drinks. The right amount of alcohol is what he needs to make him feel mellow.

Matus is perching on the edge of his seat, glaring daggers at the dark haired Nord opposite him. "I don't trust you," he forces out, after a prolonged moment of silence.

Wulf snorts at the redundancy of the comment. "Like I care. Do you trust your wife?"

There is a moment of hesitation. Wulf catches it only because he has been expecting it.

Matus notices. A muscle in his jaw juts out, then he declares, "I do trust my wife."

"Excellent." Their drinks arrive. Wulf picks his tankard and raises it in the parody of a toast. "Cheers."

"Wulf was just telling me about the capital," Gloria says. She is either too drunk to have noticed their less-than-friendly exchange, or excellent at pretending that nothing has happened.

"How I wish I could see it someday," she continues dreamily.

Matus grunts. "What about our family?"

"Huh? Oh, I know I cannot leave," she says, hands fluttering, as if to wave the thought away. "It was just wishful thinking, is all."

He shifts in discomfort. "Maybe, when Felix is grown up, and he takes over the butchery... we can make the trip."

The way Gloria beams up at her husband makes Wulf think he doesn't have anything to worry about, after all.

Matus sounds surer of himself when he continues, "Valeria will be old enough to take care of Rose and Flavius can help Felix run the business. Yes." The word falls with the finality of a decision made.

"How is he?" Wulf remembers Flavius as a spoiled brat, always looking for trouble. It usually involved him for reasons unknown.

"Flavius?" Gloria asks. "He turned out really nice, actually. You knocked some sense into him, with that stone of yours."

Wulf slightly dips his head in acknowledgement of his achievement, taking the compliment like the humble soul he is. "I'm always glad to be of service."

Matus barks out a laugh that he tries to mask with a cough and pursed lips. He appreciates the drinks, if perhaps not the company, silently chaperoning for his wife.

Not my business. Wulf mostly ignores him, happy when the favour is returned.

Gloria asks him for more stories of his travels. Matus pretends not to be interested at first, but eagerly leans forward when Wulf launches into one of his tales.

It is hard to believe that these are the same people who had laughed at him when he had told them that he would leave Bruma and make his fortune out there. He had spat in their faces that one day they'd see – one day he would return, a warrior who had seen the world, who didn't need the likes of them.

And so he had.

Now they sit with their mouths gaping open and their hands quivering with tension when he draws a perfect picture of the dangers of springing a bandit ambush.

It should have given him satisfaction, to see them hang onto his every word. How often had he wished – in silence and in secrecy – that their unimportant, mundane lives were his. Now he pities them. He can imagine few fates worse than to be stuck here; childhood, youth, and adulthood all blending together. They had taken over the work of their parents, married, given birth and now their children are running in the streets, completing the circle.

For their sake he hopes that one day they will get around to making the trip to the Imperial City, if only to have one adventure to remember life by.

Maybe if his father hadn't been the useless heap of dung he had been...

Maybes were for people too weak for the hard truth.

"What happened?" eventually comes the inevitable question.

They only had hearsay to piece together what had happened to make Wulf disappear from their lives from one day to the next. Most of the townsfolk agreed that Garmr had flown into a drunk rage and tried to kill Brutus.

Wulf listens, mouth dry and heart pounding, for once at a complete loss for words. Did they really think that it had been Garmr? The reason why they had fled the town was sitting right in front of them. The story must have gotten twisted beyond measure for them not to see it.

Wulfryk does not bother correcting the misconception. There is nothing to be gained from unfolding past wrongs.

His father had been exactly the kind of man who was proud that his son had taken an axe to another person, Wulf thinks sadly. These people would not last a single beat of the heart against somebody like – like himself.

How often had they been the cause for bitterness and anger? Yet they were also an integral part of his childhood. The two aspects are inseparably intertwined in his mind.

He wants to know they will continue being here.

It is early rather than late when Matus lays a gentle hand on his wife's forearm.

"We should head home."

She nods and gets up to retrieve their coats.

Wulf decides to go easy on her husband. "Take care of them, yeah?"

Charged with the task, Matus' chest puffs out and he nods. Though hot-headed, the man isn't a fighter – but then he is not a coward either, rather a man who knows and recognizes defeat. He will do alright by the people here.

Gloria returns and to his surprise gives him a light, friendly hug. "It was good to see you, Wulf. I'm sorry we used to be so mean to you. You turned out quite alright." She seems surprised that the words had left her lips, and blushes.

Her husband pretends not to have heard a word.

The corner of Wulf's mouth twitches upwards. "You'll make me think you don't want me to go away."

"Oh, no." She waves him off. "Nonononono. We don't need your kind of trouble here."

Wulfryk grins and sketches a proper Imperial bow in farewell.

They chuckle and wave, and Gloria calls over her shoulder, "Take care, Wulf."

 

On the morrow, it is time for him to continue his journey north. Wulf settles the bill with Martha, and sets out and does not look back. The time has come for him to move on.


	46. HT

It started with a knock. One hesitant at first, and then another. When nobody answered, it turned into a light rapping before whoever was outside got frustrated enough to firmly thump on the front door. Muffled through the solid stone walls of his home the noise made its way into Argis' dreams.

_The Nord warrior tensed, ready to jump aside and avoid collision with the group of galloping riders before they bore down upon him, trampling him to death. He could hear the hagraven's wild shrieks and gleeful cackles as she brandished a goat's leg, the roasting spit still attached. But the horses ran past, the beat of their hooves rapidly dwindling in the distance. "Watch out for the raven," Hákan said, as he raised his axe high above his head and brought it down with a dull thud upon the chopping block. It was a clean blow, decapitating the hagraven, whose head rolled over, blinked and grinned up at Argis._

Argis startled awake with a sharp intake of breath, not from the gruesome scene of his dream, for blood and death had lost their horror long ago - but upon seeing the ghost of a man now four years dead. It was then that he realized somebody was at the door and judging by the sound, ready to tear it off its hinges. With a grunt and a muttered curse at the incessant pounding, Argis rose, slipped into a pair of breeches and a shirt from the day before and shuffled down the hallway to answer the door. It was too early for Brigge to call on him, their unit would not be ready for another offensive strike until Fredas, which was, Argis groggily remembered, the day after tomorrow. Besides, the commander was not an early riser. In fact, it would require a major case of emergency to get him out of bed before dawn. And the sun had not yet risen, of that he was sure. Though the perpetual gloom of Vlindrel Hall gave no clue as to the time, Argis had learned to trust his own inner clock a long time ago.

At the door he was greeted by a blast of cold, fresh air and the face of a grumpy courier. The man's hand was raised, being interrupted mid-knock and he looked tired and rather pissed-off. Before Argis had a chance to ask what was so important it couldn't wait until a decent hour, the messenger spoke.

"Are you Argis?" the man whom the housecarl did not recall seeing around Markarth before, enquired. "The one they call ‘The Bulwark'?"

"Yeah," Argis replied, his voice still rough from sleep and saw the courtier give a curt nod. He cleared his throat and wanted to speak, but was cut off brusquely.

"The Jarl demands your immediate attendance."

Argis did not try to hide his astonishment. "What in blazes for?"

In response, he received a raised eyebrow and a biting retort. "How am I supposed to know? Jarl Igmund does not see fit to share counsel with me." The courier gave Arigs' rumpled appearance a disgusted once-over and continued "I trust you know the way to the keep. I have other affairs to attend to." And without a word of parting, the man turned on his heels and left.

Argis was still trying to understand what just had happened when an icy gust drove him back into the warm interior of his home. Closing the door behind him he briefly debated returning to the cosy softness of his bed and sleep's welcoming embrace. Argis winced at the sudden pain in his chest and he felt a deep yearning sadness as he remembered the man in his dream. Most days he did not think about Hákan at all and sometimes... well, sometimes he needed to get his ass moving because duty was calling.

Uttering another oath the warrior snapped out of his gloomy thoughts and focused on the task at hand, which was making himself respectable. Wondering what Markarth's ruler wanted from him at the very butt creak of dawn Argis rummaged about his wardrobe in search of clean clothes – where _had_ all his clothes gone? He finished dressing and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Feeling stubble on his face he frowned. This wouldn't do. Quickly, he splashed his face with cold water, shaved, and donned his armour – now _that_ he could do anytime, awake or half-asleep and anywhere in daylight as easily as in total darkness. His fingers moved deftly, swiftly tying buckles and leather stripes. There was little Argis could do for his hair on such short notice. When he had returned yesterday evening, he had been too tired to do more than cursory scrub himself down with a wet towel before he hit the pillow. He had spent the last week scouting the wilds, keeping track of their enemy. He might still look like, though at least he no longer smelled like the local wildlife. So he simply ran a comb through the mess before tying his blonde hair into a ponytail. It would have to suffice. After casting his bed one last longing glance Argis left his home for the Understone Keep.

It had been over a year since Argis had last spoken more than a few words to Jarl Igmund. He pondered the reason for his summoning as he made his way through the silent streets of Markarth. Except for the occasional torch which lighted the alleys in the wealthier districts, the city was dark and Argis met no one save for a miserable guard on duty whom he greeted with a nod. To the far east, over Markarth's walls he could make out the pale, rosy glow of dawn. The autumn air was chilly, bitter cold most people would say, but the cold did not bother Argis. He was a true Nord and he delighted in the way his breath misted over. It helped him clear his head and wash the last traces of sleep from his mind as he made his way up and down a multitude of stairways.

At the gates the guards waved him through with barely a glance.  Undoubtedly they had their orders and he was well known. Argis continued through the hallway and ascended the last flight of steps which led up to the Mournful Throne. Jarl Igmund had not aged well over the past years. He appeared exhausted and sat slumped in the oversized seat of his throne. An old, dented shield lay across his knees. There were dark rings under his eyes and his attire was dishevelled, making Argis wonder whether he had gotten any sleep at all.

He came to a halt in front of Markarth's ruler and saluted him, noting the way Faleen's eyes tracked his every movement. The Redguard woman was the Jarl's housecarl, there to protect her sovereign –with her life if necessary. It was good to look at her and not feel the burning wave of resentment and failure. It had taken a long time, but Argis had finally overcome his bitterness.

"You summoned me, my Jarl," the warrior stated.

"Ah! Yes, yes it is good you have finally arrived. I trust everything went well on your mission?"

Argis hid his frown. If the Jarl wanted to discuss the soldiers' progress he could have simply awaited Brigge's report. That was not why he was here. Still, he replied politely, "It has, Jarl. Rolfrik, Thurek and me we finally managed to track the Forsworn down. They made camp a few miles from the Karthspire, down by the Laskjö Falls at Gudrun's Eye. A briarheart is with them, as well as a hagraven. We haven't caught sight of her, but we are fairly certain she is there. Commander Brigge is ready to launch an attack on Fredas. The recruits are eager for their first battle, they have trained hard." Argis smiled proudly. He had had an essential part in training Markarth's young warriors.

The Jarl nodded and murmured his assent, though Argis could tell he wasn't really listening. He waited in silence while Jarl Igmund stared off into space.

All of a sudden the Jarl spoke up, shaking himself out of his reverie with a small jerk of his head. "I am sure you are curious as to the reason why I called for you."

"I am at your command, my Jarl," Argis intoned formally.

He saw a small smile playing across the Jarl's mouth at his words. "Yes. You are. But as you have been out of the city these last weeks, allow me to bring you up to date. There have been several incidents with the Forsworn lately. They grow bold, attacking along the main routes in broad daylight. But instead of fighting us, whenever they see a contingent of our soldiers, they slink away like the cowardly goats they are." The Jarl's hand hit the armrest of his throne to underline his words; his voice rose in anger.

The Forsworn were the Reaches' natives, but the Nord had driven them out of their homeland over a thousand years ago. Or rather, they had tried to drive them out. Ever since the two people had been at war. But the Forsworn had survived, unforgiving, and bent upon reclaiming what they believed to be rightfully theirs, which included the city of Markarth and every other settlement in the Reach. Eighteen years ago they had almost succeeded. The Forsworn had gained control of Markarth and had it not been for Ulfric Stormcloak and his campaign, they might have retained control over the city.

"We haven't been able to engage them in direct combat, but thankfully, there are always adventurers ready to risk their heads in the name of glory."

Argis winced at the words, but the Jarl resumed – whether uncaring or not noticing, the warrior could not tell.

"You may have heard the rumours. One of them actually managed to pique my interest. To make a long story short, I decided to test his mettle and sent him on a – quest..." At this point the Jarl petted the shield.

Argis still had no idea where this was going and, more importantly, what it had to do with him, but he held his tongue and feigned interest. He had, in fact heard rumours about a group of adventurers taking on a whole camp of the Forsworn, but he had not been back long enough to catch up on the gossip. He might have been doing just that, the Nine knew soldiers loved to gossip as much as milkmaids. As fate would have it, here he was listening to the ramblings of his Jarl. Argis briefly wondered whether it was some disease the nobility was afflicted with, that they could not simply _say_ what they wanted.

" _Spit it out and be done with it,"_ as Hákan used to say. _"Better than chewin' on somethin' when ya don't like the taste"._ With a start, Argis realized his attention had been wavering. Thankfully, the Jarl did not notice.

"... to retrieve this very shield. It has been an heirloom of my family, passed down from father to son for many generations. Hrolfdir, my father gave it to me, but alas! When Markarth was occupied by these Forsworn... ," he halted briefly, searching for the right word "... vermin... the shield was deemed lost. And now it has been reclaimed again!"

Argis watched the Jarl wearily as the man lovingly stroked what Argis could only call an old piece of junk metal. He distrusted the glint in the other man's eyes.

"And that is why for his dedication and bravery I have chosen to honour said adventurer with the title of Thane of Markarth." Jarl Igmund stopped, looked into Argis' one good eye and smiled. "And you, Argis, I appoint as his housecarl."

In the ensuing silence Argis could hear the blood roaring in his ears. Stunned, he had gone stock-still, ground his teeth and resisted the urge to ask whether this was a joke, because if so, it wasn't bloody funny.

Looking down upon the face of Markarth's prized warrior, now flushed red – with anger, no doubt – Jarl Igmund almost chuckled, feeling a slight pang of sympathy for the man. Adventurers really were the worst kind. And with Argis' past it was no wonder the warrior took this as an insult. Schooling his features the Jarl continued in a sympathetic voice.

"I called for you at this hour, because I thought you would appreciate having as much time as possible before he arrived. His swift advance to Thane was not entirely my decision. I would rather not give a stranger this much power, but he has served Markarth faithfully, so far."

Argis sighed, swallowing his anger. The Jarl was encumbered by politics; he might not have had much of a choice. As he had said, strangers were not welcome in Markarth. You never knew if one wasn't a spy for the Forsworn or the Thalmor. Which made Argis – what? His Thane's watchdog? Still, the Jarl had done alright by him in the past, so he was willing to trust him. In spite of that he had to clear his throat twice, before asking hoarsely "When will he arrive, my Jarl?"

"Today afternoon, at the earliest. After court, maybe. The purchase agreement of Vlindrel Hall was signed yesterday; I have already handed over the keys."

Upon hearing these words, Argis felt his blood run cold. "What about our agreement?" he burst out, in an unusual breach of his professional demeanour.

Jarl Igmund waved a hand, appeasing the distressed Nord. "It still stands, of course, and will continue to do so, don't you worry. And now, I must return to matters of state."

Knowing he was being dismissed, Argis saluted once more, before turning to leave. He had almost reached the bottom of the stairs, when he heard Jarl Igmund speak up again.

"And Argis – do not disappoint me this time."

"I will not, my Jarl," the warrior responded, but whether the Jarl had heard him, he did not know. He held his composure until he was safely back home, where he finally allowed himself to panic. With a litany of curses he kicked a bucket across the living room, before collapsing against the door of his house. Still swearing, he ran his hands over his face and through his hair in a nervous gesture. He wished he had never gotten out of bed.


	47. HT

Argis had been born and raised in the Reach, in a small village two days' ride from Markarth. When he was younger, his family sometimes travelled to the city, for their goods sold better there. They lived on Gundar's heim, a farm in a small, secluded community most simply referred to as the ‘Cove'. His father, brothers and Argis himself tended to the fields; they chopped wood and fished while his mother and sisters weaved, knitted and did embroidery. Anything to get by. His parents had seven hungry mouths to feed, but somehow they scratched out a living. The villagers were charitable folk, always willing to help. Whenever the crops of a farm failed, those who had plenty would aid those in need. Work was hard, but life was predictable and uneventful. Until the war broke out.

Well, the war didn't just break out – it had always been there, for over a thousand years Nord and Forsworn waged a hard battle over the dominion of the Reach, but eighteen years ago the Forsworn clans had allied, joining into a single army which marched upon Markarth, unrelenting and unstoppable. Markarth fell under the combined forces of the assailants and from there the Forsworn pushed onwards, expanding their rule. Trouble reached the Cove shortly after First Planting, when winter released its icy hold over the country.

Before, the wildlings had been stories the villagers told children to scare them into obedience. Suddenly though, they found the stories had come to live and become a nightmare. Refugees flooded their little town, recounting tales of horror. The Forsworn had conquered Markarth. Those who lost their homes and all their possessions were still counted among the lucky, because they had escaped with their lives. Starving, bands of forlorn refugees became a danger of their own. Not only the Forsworn were roaming the countryside, pillaging and murdering as they went. Only though sheer, dumb luck, did the Cove not stand in their way. But what little food the townsfolk could spare for the desperate, would not last. Their charities were not enough. Soon, they had to turn people away. Argis had watched his father close the door in the face of a crying woman, who begged for scraps for her hungry child. When he turned around, Argis had seen the unshed tears glistening in his father's eyes. It was not the Nord way to turn away from those in need and Gundar was Nord through and through. But what was he to do? His own children had to eat.

That night Argis had snuck out, in search for the woman, his dinner wrapped in a cloth he hid under his woollen coat. He found her in the shelter of their village's small chapel, huddled together with a dirty girl that could not have been older than six. When she heard him approach, the woman startled and looked up at him with trepidation, although Argis could make out the underlying spark of curiosity and subdued hope that shone in her eyes. Argis might have been standing in his town's own chapel, yet he felt oddly out of place. Nervously, he shuffled his feet, scrapping his toes against the floor.

"I... erm," he coughed before continuing "I brought you something." Avoiding the woman's eyes he reached inside his coat and pulled out the food, stretching his hand out towards the refugee.

"Oh," the woman gasped softly.

"It's not much, I know and… ," he risked a look at his offering; bread and some cheese, "... and it got squished," he added, embarrassed and afraid he just made a fool out of himself.

His worries were quenched, however, when he saw the woman smiling up at him.

"Thank you," she said softly and there was a depth of emotion in her voice and eyes that put Argis to shame. It was not fair that she should show such gratitude, for in a couple of hours she would go hungry again, whilst he would return to his family, his home with a warm kitchen and a soft bed. While Argis pondered this silently, the woman shook awake the girl, who squealed with delight at the food and began stuffing chunks of bread into her mouth, swallowing them whole.

"Not so fast, or you will get sick with bellyache," the woman reprimanded her gently, before turning to her benefactor. "Please, sit. I am Agata, and this is Rosa." The girl looked up when she heard her name, but did not stop eating. "And to whom do we owe such kindness?"

"I am Argis, Gundarsson," Argis replied, lowering himself so that he could lean against one of the wooden benches. "I live here." He shrugged, pulling his coat around himself. Not willing to let the silence set in, he added "It was the least I could do."

"It was more than anybody else did," Agata replied, stroking Rosa's hair, who had stopped eating and had laid back down, and Argis did not miss the bitter edge that had crept into her voice. After some quiet contemplation, Agata sighed "Not that I can fault them." She turned her gaze back on Argis. "Nobody seems to have anything left."

To this Argis nodded his head. "Not after winter, they don't."

Skyrim's long winters were hard on the farmers. It meant much of the sowing and harvesting had to be done in a very short time. Those weeks were excruciating, their entire family working from sunup till sunset. By the time Harvest's End arrived, everybody was looking forward to the respite that autumn would bring. Yet in its own way, winter was worse than those days they spent toiling in the summer heat. Because by then all they could do was wait and hope they had gathered enough food, fodder and firewood. When the snow engulfed the entire countryside in a white blanket and the skies turned the colour of tarnished iron they would often sit around the dining table, the fire crackling merrily, illuminating the dim interior of their home. They would talk, the moments of shared closeness almost intimate as they tried to keep the cold and dismal thoughts at bay with laughter and song. And beneath it all, at times so thick it was almost tangible, the undercurrent of dread was forever present.

"We tried helping them, you know? When people first came and asked for our aid, we did. But they never stopped coming." It was no excuse, Argis knew. Still, he wanted to speak in defence of the villagers who were good people, people he had grown up with. He doubted it gave the woman next to him any solace knowing that others had received the help she herself was in such desperate need of.

"Where are you going?" he found himself asking after a little while, clumsily trying to change the topic.

"I have a cousin a couple of miles south of Karthwasten. She… ," at this point Agata's voice faltered for a moment, before she continued. "She will take us in," she said trying to sound convincing, but the smile she gave Argis wavered precariously.

"That's a long way to go," was the only answer that came to his mind.

"We have already made one third of the way," Agata answered, determination, pride and exhaustion marking her words.

Hearing those words, Argis felt excitement bubble up in him. "You're not from Markarth, then!" he exclaimed, eager to hear about the far dwellings of the Reach.

His eagerness showed and Agata chuckled. Such a sweet boy, who had shown more compassion than the majority of people she had come across. She had little doubt that the food he had brought her had been his own meal. Although it was painful to think about her home, she could not blame him for asking. And in a way it felt good, cleansing, to have somebody to talk to, somebody who listed to her and in whose eyes she could detect no judgement, just curiosity and sympathy.

"No, I am not from Markarth. My home was Irisberg... ," she began, the memories now bittersweet. She told him about her own village, about how they had been warned about the Forsworn attack and how she and her daughter had fled, towards Markarth, where they thought they would be kept safe by its strong walls. It was a mistake that had almost become fatal. So they ran once more, turning north where Agata hoped to find shelter with her distant family.

Soon their talk started flowing, becoming less forced after a rather bumpy start and both were glad, if somewhat tense, flinching when their voices resounded too loudly in the empty stillness of the chapel. It never quite became companionable, the topic too distressing to let either relax wholly. Argis did not know how long he stayed, not willing to leave and when the time came when he had to depart, he felt himself being pulled into an impromptu hug.

"Thank you, again."

Argis nodded. "Good luck. Stay safe."

"You too." Agata replied, patting his cheek in a gesture so reminiscent of his own mother, that Argis almost did a double take. "But do not worry. This plight cannot last much longer. Not with Ulfric on the way."

It was she who had first told Argis of a rumour; namely that Ulfric Stormcloak was assembling an army, taking on any volunteers and, when he finally had the numbers, he would free them of the Forsworn menace. By doing so she had unknowingly kindled a spark, one that years later would be fanned to a roaring blaze. Little did Argis know back then what the future had store for him. Waving one last goodbye, he walked out of the chapel and slowly made his way back home. What the refugee woman had said, struck a chord deep within the boy and that very night a plan began to form in the back of his mind.

Argis was pulled out of his thoughts when he arrived at a familiar door, his feet having carried him here seemingly of their own. Now came the hard part. The front door creaked, but it was still better than the back door, because that was where they kept some livestock. And alarmed pigs made for surprisingly good watchdogs. He thought he had been careful when he had snuck out, avoiding his sleeping siblings and all the loose floorboards in the main room. Carefully, he eased the door open and breathed out a sigh of relief when he was greeted with silence, signifying that everybody was sound asleep. Just as he was making his way past the hearth, where the fire had burned low and the coals were glowing a dark red, his father's deep voice made him jump.

"Where have you been, son?"

The words were accompanied by a few muffled snickers from above and Argis did not need to look up to know that he had an audience.

"I," he considered saying that he had felt ill and went outside to breathe some fresh air, but dropped the idea of lying almost as soon as it came to his mind. He had been raised to know better.

"I was at the chapel," he admitted finally.

Gundar nodded, having suspected as much. "I did not know brother Jansen offered his services at such a late hour," he replied wryly.

"I went to find the refugee woman. The one with the girl, who was at our door earlier. I went to give them some food," the confession bubbled out of him. Argis wondered if his father was mad enough to strike him. He knew he should not have gone behind his family's back, but the only food he had taken was his own. His heart sank when his father spoke.

"So you were not just sneaking around, but willing to let your own family hunger?"

"It was just my share, I didn't take from anyone else, I swear! I can go hungry for one day. They had nothing!" Argis cried, trying to make his father understand. He had made his decision and he would stand by it and suffer the consequences if he had to. What he did not know, was that his father understood very well and was testing his son's resolve. After a while Gundar let the stern mask fall away and firmly grasped his son's shoulder.

"I'm proud of you, son. Today you acted as any true Nord should. You have a good heart. Don't lose it. Sometimes life can be harsher than the coldest winter." And after ruffling Argis' hair, Gundar pulled his son into a hug, dispelling all doubts about any ill will. "Now up you go, you'll have an early start tomorrow. You gave your mother quite a scare; you'll better help her around the house."

"Yes, papa," Argis said, flashing his father a smile, before he made his way to the ladder, climbing up to the loft, where all the brothers slept. Their home had two rooms, a living room that included a kitchen and a small pen for animals, and a tiny chamber, where their parents could sleep in privacy. The boys had pallets on the right part of the loft, the left was for supplies. Argis' two sisters slept around the kitchen table, on the benches. The backrests could be rotated to the front, so that the benches would serve as beds.

When Argis reached the top, he found five pairs of eyes trailed on him. So much for stealthy sneaking. "Alright, who tattled?" Argis asked, frowning and trying to sound tough.

"Svenja did. She saw you and went running to mother," one of the twins piped up. Argis thought it was Niels, but there was no way to tell in the dark. Svenja was the youngest of the siblings, her sister Katla the eldest. Argis really couldn't blame his baby sister. At five years of age she was just a child.

"Father was furious when you left." Argis heard Olav's voice from the back. Olav was second eldest. For some reason he and Argis did not get along very well.

"Well he wasn't when I came back," Argis answered.

"Stop it, both of you!" Eric, ever the peacemaker, threw in. "Or I'll knock your heads together." He could do it too, he was not only built like a bull, but also had a temper like one. Before, he had been Argis' staunch protector against his elder brother - a service that Argis, who was starting to outgrow them both, was no longer in any need of. But keeping his idiot brothers from each other's throats was a task that Eric had taken up upon himself.

Before their talk could turn into a full blown argument, a new voice joined in. "What did she say?" This was Katla speaking.

Argis, who had been steeling himself for a quarrel, did not pay her much attention. "Who?"

"The refugee, silly." He could practically hear his sister's smile.

Argis swallowed. "She said it's bad, and it's not just Markarth. The Forsworn are roaming around, and considering we're just four days' walk away, we have been darn lucky." The room had grown so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

Olav broke the silence first "I don't understand why the Jarl lets them do as they please. Why don't the soldiers stop them?"

Argis knew the answer. "They are waiting for Ulfric. He is building an army and when he has one big enough, he will lay siege to Markarth."

Everybody's eyes had grown wide. "So there's gonna be war?" Eric's voice was hushed.

Argis nodded. "Yes." He took a deep breath, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. "And I will sign up."

His statement was met with a chorus of gasps.

"What?" Katla sounded winded.

Eric was more direct. "Are you nuts?!"

Olav, as always, had something to contribute. "You're not old enough."

"I am old enough and soon I'll be taller than you are," Argis snapped.

"You don't even have a girlfriend." It was one of Olav's favourite arguments why he was so much more grown up than his brothers.

"Neither do you."

"But I had one," Olav said haughtily.

"Yes, until you got sick on her," Argis retorted.

"You bloody... "

The rest of what either of them might have said was drowned out in a chorus of shrill laughter. The twins had not been there the day Olav had drunk and danced too much, but the tale of how he had gained and lost a girl in one night was one of their favourites.

The two brothers kept glaring at each other, while Katla rolled her eyes. She was betrothed and did she have to mention it every chance she got? No.

Olav was distracted by the giggling boys. "You little blighters," he hissed at them, but it was harmless banter. Olav adored the twins. Everybody did, through what Mikael and Niels had done to deserve such admiration, nobody knew. Mostly they just tried to get everybody to confuse them and then they would make that person feel guilty about it. Those rascals.

Katla turned her attention back to her brother. "Argis," she began haltingly "are you sure? Do you even know what you are talking about?"

For once in his life he was absolutely sure. Argis looked up and spoke. "And what will we do when the Forsworn get here? When Ulfric fails to defeat them because he did not have enough men, who's gonna keep us safe? "

He stood up, stepping out of their circle and made his way towards his pallet.

A heavy silence engulfed the room. Katla did not doubt that they were all thinking about how easily the refugees' fate could become their own. She looked over to where she knew Argis slept, even though she could not make out much in the darkness. Her younger brother was tall and stubborn, but he was also shy and awkward and he had no experience whatsoever in fighting. None of them did. She just could not picture him holding a sword instead of a pitchfork, let alone actually hurting anyone.

Yet, never before had he sounded so very sure about something. Argis would do what he believed to be right, the incident with the refugee woman had shown as much.

Katla did not sleep that night, choosing to watch over her sleeping family instead, contemplating Argis' words and trying to shake the feeling of impending doom.


	48. HT

When next morning Argis announced his decision, the biggest argument that Gundar's heim had ever witnessed, ensued. Disagreements between family members were inevitable, considering they were nine people living in one house. Therefore, Gundar spent every other day trying to sort out some squabble or another. Because he believed in fairness he first tried to talk some sense into Argis, but when his son would not be swayed by any reasoning, their argument went round and round, until Gundar had the feeling that he was talking to a water wheel. He felt Argis' resolve strengthen and it was fear of losing his son that finally made him flat out refuse Argis' request to enlist with the army.

"You're not going anywhere! There's nothing for you out there, no glory, no honour, nothing."

"There's precious little for me here, but cabbages and potatoes," Argis threw in, deliberately goading his father on. He felt bad about it, but he would not give any ground. Not this time.

"WHAT ABOUT YOUR FAMILY?!" Gundar roared, angry that his son would dismiss them and their livelihood so quickly.

"I'M DOING THIS TO PROTECT MY FAMILY!!" Argis yelled right back at him, matching his father's anger. Never before had a dispute gotten this much out of hand. In fact, it was the first time any of Gundar's children had raised their voice in such a way.

In the following silence Olav's words cracked like a whip. "He's right."

Ivanna, who had been listening to her husband and son arguing, looked up in shock "Olav, surely you do not agree?

"No. He is right," Olav insisted. "We are Nord. We should protect our homes, not cower in fear and hope we might be spared. Because we might not be."

Gundar closed his eyes to ward off the influx of despair. He stood up and bitterly muttered, "Divines, deliver me from the simple-heartedness of youth" and, throwing his hands up, he left the room. In retrospect he knew that he should not have lost his temper, that he should have whittled away Argis' reasons and that a negative response would only make his stubborn son dig his heels in harder. But he could not consent to an undertaking that might be the death of his beloved children. So he did what any responsible father would and sought counsel. He found Jansen behind the chapel, tending to the beds of herbs and vigorously pulling weeds.

Upon hearing his approach, the other man looked up from his work. "My friend," he began, a deep furrow appearung between his brows when he beheld Gundar's distressed expression. "You look like something is troubling you greatly."

Gundar nodded. Assuming that he would have enough time to explain himself later he said quietly, "I would like to call for the town's Circle to meet."

When she saw her husband storm off, Ivanna made her way over to where Argis sat dejected at the kitchen table, head buried in his arms. His siblings had legged it the moment the shouting had started. All except for Olav that was, and even though his elder brother had agreed with him, which was a rare occurrence, he felt no particular inclination to talk to him. He did not stir when somebody settled next to him, but when he felt a gentle hand stroking his hair he looked up warily.

Ivanna pulled back and mustered her son with tender, loving eyes. She knew why her husband had reacted so badly, for the same dread, that of losing a child, also lingered in her heart. Such were the burdens a mother had to bear. Instead of demanding an explanation she asked just one question. "Why?"

Argis closed his eyes for one moment, unknowingly mirroring his father, and thought about the best way to phrase his answer. "For you," he began. "All of you. For Svenja, for Niels and for Mikael. And for you, mum, and for father, so that you'll never have to go through what the refugees did. So that you'll be safe."

"You could die," she said softly.

"I know." Argis answered her just as quietly. "But at least I have a choice."

His mother nodded.

"So you will not stop me?" Argis sounded incredulous.

"Son, I would pick up a sword myself and face down the entire Forsworn horde to stop you. But that decision is not mine to make." Patting Argis on the shoulder she got up and calmly, but firmly told him "Up, now. There's work to be done and I will not have you moping around." Behind her she heard an unhappy moan and the scrape of a wooden chair on the floor.

 

xxxx

 

The meeting began in the afternoon, when the other members of the Circle returned from their work in the fields. The villagers had formed the Circle as a means of discussing problems and making decisions that concerned their entire community. Gundar was hardly surprised when he found out that he was not the only one facing the particular problem that brought him here. As it turned out, plenty of sons and daughters had already expressed their desire to join Ulfric's cause. Now their parents argued back and forth, debating whether they should comply with their wishes. Gundar listened, feeling as if the solid ground beneath his feet had began to tilt as he sat there; until he could stand it no longer.

"I don't care if they hate me until the end of their days, if I can prevent them from going to war, then I will!" Gundar spoke up, interrupting everybody else.

"And how do you intend to do that?" the miller shouted out.

Gundar swallowed. He knew they would ask this particular question and he had thought long and hard. What he came up with hardly made him happy, but it was the only way. "I will join in their stead."

It looked as if this day was meant to be filled with strife and discord, because as soon as he uttered those words, their orderly meeting broke up, when people started arguing agitatedly. Quite some time passed before things quieted down and Jensen, their elected leader, got everybody to sit down again.

"I doubt there is anyone here amongst us who had not already thought of going themselves, so as to spare our beloved ones." Jansen looked around the gathering; there were many muttered acknowledgements and nods.

"But let us think about whether it will truly solve the problem. Let's face it, we're not as young as we used to be. Even if they take us, there's no guarantee they won's still want our sons and daughters. And if they don't, they'll be wanting them all the more."

Another chorus of murmurs erupted, before the innkeeper addressed the meeting. "Better let them volunteer than have the soldiers drag them off in chains. I hear the Jarl's patience is at an end, that he's been forcing people into service and shaming their families, if not outright branding them as traitors. He won't overlook us forever. Friends, I don't think there's an easy way out of this."

 

xxxx

 

Afterwards, watching the sun set and turn the sky and clouds a vivid pink, even as all colour slowly bled out from the world, Gundar sat slumped on a roughly hewn bench that stood alongside the house. He had not mustered the energy to face his family, instead wondering how it had come to this.

Eric found his father in his, as he called it, favourite thinking place; staring into space.

Gundar had not looked up when he heard footsteps approach on gravel, he did not have to. It was Eric, who carefully lowered himself beside him, approaching as someone would a wild animal.

"Are you intending to leave too?" Gundar asked, defeated.

"Somebody's got to keep those two blockheads from killing each other when the army puts swords in their hands."

In spite of himself, Gundar could not suppress a soft chuckle. For once it was Eric being the sensible one. It seemed his world had turned upside-down overnight. His quiet son was showing temper, while his hot-headed brother was arguing reason. Gundar heaved himself to his feet, feeling his age keenly on this day. Turning to Eric, he stated "It turns out that if I do not let you go, the recruiters will most likely make you. But I will be damned if I allow you to be off before your sister's wedding."

Erik had expected as much and frankly, he was not very enthusiastic about the idea of leaving. Rising as well he walked up to his father. "Let's go inside and tell them, shall we?"

xxxx

 

Secretly, Argis was glad that their departure had been postponed. Katla's wedding was to take place at the end of Rain's Hand, giving him almost a month's time to get used to the idea that he truly would leave home. Time that passed entirely too quickly. When the day of the wedding drew near, their entire village helped with the preparations. The night before everybody was casting nervous glances towards the heavens, but the stars shone bright and clear, promising good weather for the morrow. When morning dawned sunny and cloudless, everybody breathed a sigh of relief. As most villagers were farmers, they were not responsible to anyone, except for themselves and so many took at least a part of their day off.

Argis had not seen his sister since breakfast, at the end of which Ivanna had shooed them all out of the house to have some time with her daughter. Whatever women did before marriage, it took a long time and it probably involved too much skirts and hair braiding to be of any interest to Argis. So he made his way to one of the tables and tried to join in with the talk and laughter, even though his heart wasn't really in it.

Neither Katla nor her husband would join the army, for somebody had to stay and help with the farm. It would be an arduous year without the brothers, even though Katla's husband would be there to help out.

In the afternoon brother Jansen held the ceremony and afterwards there was food and drink, songs and dances. As the Cove celebrated the happy occasion, Argis could not help but notice that the joy was dampened by the knowledge that this was also goodbye. Some boys and miller Matje's eldest daughter had already set out, but most had chosen to stay for a while longer. Tension hung in the air and it was evident by the way people tried to drink it away, by how the music sometimes was too loud and the laughter too shrill.

After a night of merrymaking dawn arrived all too soon and Argis slung the knapsack he had packed and repacked on a daily basis for nearly a month now over his shoulder. In sharp contrast to yesterday's drinking, farewell was a sober affair. Tears were shed as everybody hugged and their parents made Argis and his brothers swear they would be careful. Eric had to promise Gundar to look after his little brother and to keep Argis and Olav from fighting each other.

And finally they set out, waving a last goodbye to Ivanna, who stood in the doorway with Svenja. The little girl clung to her mother's skirts and stared at them wide-eyed. "Mama, where are they going?" When there was no response, she looked up at her mother and tugged at her skirt. "Where are Argis and Eric and Olav going, mama?"

"To fight the bad men," Ivanna answered, not looking away from the dwindling forms of her sons for even a moment, trying to memorize every detail and to preserve it, firmly believing that she could stave off even the inevitable by sheer force of will.

"When will they come back?"

"I don't know, child. I don't know."


	49. HT

At first the brothers were excited to journey, but their initial eagerness wore off when the weather turned foul. Argis was wet, cold and altogether miserable as he lay on the hard ground that was slowly turning into mud. They had travelled north, in the direction of Karthwasten, but before they could reach the town they had crossed the river Karth, heading east. Ulfric's army was encamped on the great plains between Rorikstaed and the mountains that marked the border of the Reach. It was the farthest any of them had ever been from home and Argis had to tell himself that no, he was not homesick. Because brave warriors surely did not long for their beds and mother's cooking, and he was about to become one. A warrior, though Argis was not so sure about the 'brave' part.

On the road they encountered many others going in the same direction.Ulfric's camp was like a maelstrom, pulling in everyone who dared to venture too close. Nonetheless Argis was glad when after a long journey they finally arrived. The sight that greeted them stole their breath away. A sea of tents rose before them, bigger than anything they could have imagined and dwarfing even Markarth in size. The boys took their time to just stand and stare at it all. The hundreds, if not thousands tents were arranged into precise squares with big roads and narrow alleyways lying between them. Horses stood in corrals while livestock grazed outside the camp in flocks of a size that made Argis' head spin.

This was no mere camp, it was a city, and it hummed with life. Argis stretched his neck trying to glimpse it all, while Erik swore in terms that would make his father slap him upside the head. There were messengers running around while carriages continued to pour in and out of the gates. Soldiers marched past, their drill sargents bellowing orders. After the quiet of the road the clamour was terrible. Above the camp, emanating from hundreds of campfires, a cloud of dark smoke hung.

When Argis and his brothers approached the gates they were stopped by two guards. "Hold up there, you. State your business," one of them said, lazily chewing on a toothpick.

"We want to join Ulfric. To fight the Forsworn," Olav answered him.

"Aye. Ya came to the right place, then. See that big blue tent over there? That's where you'll be wanting to go. Just follow the main road"

Argis looked over to where the soldier had pointed and nodded his thanks before walking up to the gates. 'This was it,' he thought, the point from which there was no return. He passed the ditch and a low palisade wall and slowly strode to the middle of the camp, gawking as he went. In passing he noticed that the road he walked upon was made from rough cobblestones, thus preventing the horses and people from trampling it into a mire. The brothers reached the blue tent and a guard waved them through the open flap with barely a glance. Behind a sturdy oaken table littered with papers a sour faced man sat. When he heard them enter he looked up from his work and glared at Argis. "Names and village," he barked at them.

"Argis Gundarsson," Argis said and made a motion with his hand to encompass his brothers "We are from the Cove."

"The Cove, you say? Heard 'bout you before. Got ourselves some volunteers from there. Did you volunteer?"

"Yes, Sir. We all did."

Leaning over his desk the Nord looked them over carefully. They had come in unaccompanied by any soldiers and they did not look half as desolated as the other farm boys sitting behind him. Argis saw the man's dour demeanour lessen for a moment as he exclaimed "Well, well, it looks like Skyrim has some true sons after all," while throwing a disparaging glance at the other recruits. Motioning to the benches he told the brothers, "Best sit yer arses down, the Captain will be here by midday to sort you lot out," and without a further glance at the recruits he went back to studying his reports.

The wait was long and boring; Argis' backside going numb from the hard seat, so he was glad when there was a small commotion as a messenger came in and quietly talked to the Nord in charge, who promptly abandoned his work. Standing up he addressed the forty or so recruits. "Get up and follow me."

They were led to a small square between the tents, where the Nord told them to line up, placing Argis, Eric and Olav at the left end of the line and somewhat apart from the others, a special place reserved for volunteers. They did not have to wait long this time for the Captain to appear. He was a bulky man, clad in shining armour with a bear pelt hanging from his shoulders.

“For heaven's sake, stand still you useless clods!” the man from the tent bellowed at them when a few recruits nervously shuffled their feet and craned their necks.  “And look straight ahead!”  
  
Considering how nervous Argis was at first, the sorting proved to be a surprisingly uninteresting matter.  The Captain walked alongside their line, calling out numbers and names to the man at his side, who noted it all down.  He made his way along the line without breaking his stride, down to where Olav stood.  
  
"Fourth Wing."   Then it was Eric's turn.  "Put him in the defence."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Anywhere!"  
  
When the Captain reached Argis he opened his mouth, closed it and stopped.  Squinting at Argis, who suddenly had to fight the urge to fidget, the man enquired, "How old are you, boy?"  
  
"Six-and-ten, sir," Argis answered.

"Are these your brothers?" The Captain indicated Olav and Eric with a dip of his head.

Argis nodded. "Yes, Sir."

The Captain studied him for a while longer before turning to his scribe. "Put him in with the Heavies." He then continued on his way, leaving behind a confused and admittedly, slightly scared Argis.

The scribe remained and oversaw their _distribution_. It was so well organized and exact, Argis had a disturbing vision of himself being nothing but crop. He ended up with Lieutenant Carsten, a man with grey hair and eyes cold as steel, who did not seem very impressed with his charge. "Captain must've seen something in you," he grumbled as he led Argis to his quarters, briefing him on his duties and on the Second Heavy Infantry Regiment that Argis now was a part of.

Training began early next morning and Argis saw why the Lieutenant had been so very unenthusiastic. Argis must have been the youngest member of the two hundred or so recruits. It was a small mercy that there were others who had never held a sword in their hands before. At first they were instructed how to take proper care of arms and armour. They proceeded by learning the basics of fighting with sword and shield, their training accompanied by rigorous exercises meant to increase their strength and endurance. Argis felt like he was being destroyed as he fell into his cot each evening, bone weary and every part of his body aching. When their taskmaster announced they would forgo weapons training in favour of marching drills he sorely needed the respite. The recruits spent the next couple of days learning various battle and marching formations, as they at first haphazardly tried to keep up with Carsten's bellowed orders.

Argis had precious little free time and most of it he spent resting. One day though he sought out his brothers, whom he had not seen in over a month now. He found Eric standing guard, equipped with a shield and a spear. Eric's training had mostly consisted of his trainers telling him to keep the shield up and the spear aimed at his enemies. Olav somehow had made it into the cavalry and Argis felt relieved that his brother was not here when he told Eric that by now their brother's head must have swollen so badly no helmet would fit him.

Two months into Argis' training the main bulk of the army left for Markarth. Ulfric's intention was to starve out the Forsworn before chancing a direct attack. Because the city had been well supplied when taken, the enemy would be able to hold out for a long time.

Argis remained behind. Their regiment continued to drill until everybody found their place and their lines were no longer crooked. That was when Carsten took them out, away from the training grounds and accompanied by a horse drawn cart full with provision they set out over the plains. They carried only light gear and it had not seemed very strenuous at first, though after several days their backpacks turned into heavy burdens. At night the recruits would sit around the campfires and massage their sore feet, too tired to talk. They walked, trained, resupplied and then they walked some more.

Thus the months passed until almost a year after he had set out from home, Argis found himself marching in lock-step with his comrades towards Markarth whilst chatting merrily. He wore armour, though he would have to get it adjusted, as the breastplate was somewhat tight around his chest. It was nothing new; he had paid the blacksmith three visits already. His entire gear weighted a full hundred pounds, but he no longer felt the weight, even as their regiment marched an average of twenty miles per day. Not that they could sleep and rest once they reached their destination. Before anything else, they would make a suitable camp, which meant digging a trench and fortifying it with stakes they carried with them. They had to dig latrines, chop firewood, cook, raise their tents and clean their armour. Of course they continued to practice swordfighting.

 oooo

Argis heard the army long before he saw it. By now it was an almost familiar sight, though the sheer size of it did not cease to amaze him. Later, he learned that engineers had built siege engines in order to sap the walls, when it had become evident that undermining of the city's walls was impossible due to Markarth being built on solid stone. They were the last group to arrive. That night they celebrated the official end of being recruits, for they were soldiers now. Their carousing was fuelled by copious amounts of ale, a gift from their commander. If they wanted to get inebriated they would have to do so now, as drunkenness on the eve of battle would not be tolerated. Argis joined the revelry, but instead of drinking himself into oblivion, he chose to search out his brothers. He spend a surprisingly peaceful evening with Eric and Olav, but while everyone seemed calm on the outside, Argis felt like he had swallowed hot coals. Stomach churning, he stayed up late until fatigue overwhelmed him and he fell asleep.

One more day.

When Carsten asked him to run a few errands on the following morning, Argis was glad, for the task would at least occupy his body, if not his mind.

Evening arrived all too soon and Lieutenant Carsten had them line up on the main drill ground before addressing both regiments of ‘Heavies'. It was the first time they were not subjected to his disdain and there might even have been a hint of pride in his voice as he spoke.

"Tomorrow there will be battle, but is not you who should fear that day, but the scum hiding in Markarth. We will flush those cowards, who will not meet us in open combat out, like the vermin they are. Any of you who fall, know that your spirits will live on forever in Sovngarde. Fight bravely and remember that your brothers and sisters in arms will stand beside you! Prove me right in saying that you are the bloody best unit in this army!"

This pronouncement was greeted with deafening cheers.

"Tomorrow, when the wall of Markarth falls, the First and Second heavy Infantry Regiment will have to honour to be the first ones through the breach."

In the silence that followed somebody whispered, "Fuck me sideways." Argis bit his tongue, no longer sure whether he made the right decision by leaving home.


	50. HT

At first light the sound of trumpets rang out over the valley, signifying the beginning of a series of events that would later be remembered in history as the Markarth Incident.

For Argis it meant that the waiting was finally over. His day started like any other, as he relieved himself, donned his armour and inspected his sword one last time. Everything was in order and the routine of handling his gear helped to calm him down and maintain his focus. He had seen the blacksmith about his breastplate yesterday and now it fit like a glove. The edge of his blade was sharp and smooth, but strong. It was time.

He made his way to where his regiment was assembling, taking up his position in the ranks. When the entire army had gathered, an eerie hush settled over the camp, the silence grating on everyone's already frayed nerves. Argis held his breath until he heard the first deep, rolling booms of the drums, the sound washing over him, quickening his heartbeat and releasing him from his stasis.

The commanding officers took up their positions, Lieutenant Carsten shouting for them to "ADVANCE!"

A tremor ran through the ranks and the soldiers lurched forward, but quickly found their pace as they slowly approached a segment of the wall that looked decidedly more damaged than the rest. From atop the walls Argis could hear the enemy jeer and throw insults at them, while they brandished their weapons.

 oooo

The Forsworn did not fire at them, not yet, curious as to what the Nords intended to do. Their wall was weakened yes, but it still stood and the soldiers did not have any ladders. The largest part of the soldiers stopped outside of the reach of their inferior bows, but two groups boldly moved on.

Ulfric's plan of starving them out had not entirely succeeded. They were weakened but they had managed to smuggle sufficient amounts food into the city through the mountains. Ulfric had had his troubles in laying the siege, because Markarth was surrounded by mountains on three sides. While soldiers patrolled the paths, there was not enough space for them to form in mass, which rendered them vulnerable to attacks. The Forsworn had survived and the Nord were mistaken if they thought they would give up easily. And while the force defending Markarth was formidable, the greatest part of the Reachmen warriors hid in the surrounding valleys, ready to storm forward and fall into Ulfric's back, as soon as the soldiers turned all their attention towards Markarth. It would be a glorious day to see the Nords break upon their walls as water breaks upon rocks.

Just as the Forsworn commander was about to give the order to open fire, he saw something roll from amongst the soldiers that he at first believed to be a battering ram. It looked almost like a miniature siege tower, it was so heavily reinforced; however its purpose not to attack, but to protect the one walking beneath it: Ulfric Stormcloak.

 

The walk up to the wall dragged on for what seemed like an eternity to Argis. For a long time nothing happened, but then a shout was heard from the battlements and the Forsworn assaulted them, not just with arrows and crossbow bolts, but also pelting them with stones. The first screams rang out as soldiers fell, some never to rise again. Argis held his shield up and tried hard not to look, not to think that there were people _dying_ around him and that he could easily be one of the shrieking, writhing lumps on the ground.

The Forsworn continued to shower them with deadly volleys, thinning out their ranks, but not overly so and they reached the wall, safeguarding Ulfric's stronghold with body and shield. Ulfric would bring the wall down, though nobody knew how. From where he stood in the back, Argis did not see the Jarl of Windhelm, but he was glad to be in the rear nonetheless, as their enemies had started pouring boiling oil and pitch on the soldiers amassed beneath them. The piercing screams of the wounded made Argis want to drop his shield and hold his ears closed, except that his shield was the only thing that kept him from suffering a similar fate.

Whatever Ulfric was doing, he took his sweet time about it, but suddenly a thunderous voice rose from the front, drowning out the twangs of bowstrings and the wails of the wounded for one moment. The words were of a language unknown to Argis, but they carried a terrible power and he watched in disbelief as a part of the wall gave way, crumbling and burying both friend and foe beneath a cascade of boulders. Yells of surprise and dismay arose from the Forsworn defenders.

The Nords answered with their own fierce battle cries before storming the gap at the same time as Ulfric's tower slowly made its way back towards the bulk of the forces. Argis had no choice but to charge alongside his comrades or otherwise risk being trampled to death. He added his voice to that of the others, lowering his shield so that he could see where he was going, and instinctively stooped, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. They met little resistance and were able to regroup hurriedly once they were through the breach.

Closing their ranks they marched onwards, shields locked against the first wave of assailants. Argis felt the clash as their ranks trembled and buckled, but they held fast and the soldiers were able to push forward, driving the enemy before them and towards Markarth's main street. Argis had yet to do any active fighting and from his position he was not able to see what lay before him, but he felt it when their advance came to a sudden stop.

Instead of walking through the street they found themselves before a wall. A second wall. A second wall that Markarth did not have. Except that it did. It rose up before them with only a gap wide enough for two men to pass through; and it was bristling with Forsworn. Behind them their enemy abandoned the main wall as war horns rang out and a terrible clamour sounded from outside the city.

They were trapped.

And then all hell broke loose.

 

xxxx

 

When the first rows of Nords dropped under a volley of arrows, Argis suddenly found himself in the front, stumbling over the bodies of his fallen friends, with his first opponent swinging his sword at Argis' face. Training took over and he took a step back, assuming a sideways stance to buy himself some time and because it made him a smaller target. The Forsworn charged him head-on, his serrated blade descending in a wide arc. Wide enough for Argis to step forward, into the attack and to smash his shield into the surprised man, whose blade bounced off the wood and bit deep into its owner's neck. Argis watched in a mix of curiosity and horror as the man let go of his sword in favour of clutching his neck, which was spurting blood in a crimson torrent. The jagged edge had ripped open the Reachman's artery and Argis had never thought that there was so much blood in a human being. For a fraction of a second he forgot about the battle, as he watched the man at his feet die, while a distant part of his mind whispered that it was just like slaughtering one of the farm animals. The man's eyes rolled with the same panic and incomprehension and even his final grunts could be mistaken for those of a sow.

Argis had made his first kill. Before he could fully grasp the reality of it, he had to move once again. A Forsworn woman was aiming her bow at him and he was lucky to raise his shield in time, the impact of the arrow rocking him back and knocking his shield painfully against his jaw. He did not want to fight her, but he did; his lieutenant's voice echoing in his head. _Always go for the kill_. He shattered her skull, even as he thought that she was somebody's daughter. A sister, maybe a mother. He heard himself scream, but he was hardly the only one, the noise around him was a deafening cacophony of clashing weapons and shouting

An explosion to his right had Argis looking around. He saw an impressive figure with a headdress made from a dear's skull standing on the wall, shooting balls of fire at them. A cry of ‘briarheart’ went up and the stench of burned flesh and hair filled the air. Argis felt his eyes burn and water from the acrid fumes, or maybe it was from seeing his regiment, his comrades, some who had been fast friends, massacred. The enemy came on, merciless and unyielding and Argis lost himself in the fighting, his only coherent thought ‘ _I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die..._ ’ running through his head like a prayer.

He hung onto it, like a drowning men clings to flotsam, repeating it over and over in his head, and if he was yelling it at the top of his lungs, he could not tell. When next he risked looking around, maybe a tenth of their force was still standing, but still no reinforcements arrived to help them out of their dire straits. The magic attacks had stopped some time ago, so somebody must have gotten through to the briarheart. A rider chose that very moment to charge through the breach. He wore the telltale yellow attire of a messenger, but instead of riding up to them, the man toppled from his mount, not far from where Argis stood. His clothes were bloodied.

The horse, riddled with arrows, tottered a few steps further before it heavily collapsed to the ground, where it continued to kick feebly.

Argis made his way over to where the man was lying and turned him around. The messenger's mouth moved, though Argis did not hear the whispered words.

"What?" Argis asked, leaning in and bringing his ear to the man's mouth to hear better.

"Ret... ret... retr," was the only thing the messenger got out between death rattles.

"What?" Argis bellowed and shook him, desperate to get an answer, but the other man did not get any further. Blood poured out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin as his eyes rolled back in his head to stare sightlessly at the sky.

"What did he say?!" a shrill voice enquired. Argis recognized Marta, a woman from his regiment

He stared horrified at the corpse he held, as despair sank in. "I don't know," he whispered hoarsely.

Most of the Forsworn from the main wall had been killed, but there was a never-ending stream of them pouring through the gap of the second wall. Somebody had to stop them. As if in a trance, Argis staggered up and carefully walked towards the gap. The footing was treacherous, because the once solid ground had turned into an ankle-deep muck of blood, piss and feces, littered with body parts and corpses. In their own way the dead were better than the wounded, once strong men and women who now shrieked for their mothers and grasped for Argis’ ankles, as if his ruined boots somehow offered them salvation. Argis closed his heart against the wails, but there was no way to close his eyes to the sights, though the tears streaming down his face blurred his vision somewhat. He passed one of his friends, who sat leaning against the wall, his abdomen ripped open and guts lying about like a gruesome display at the butcher's, even as the man was staring at them disbelievingly. He left behind many others, their once familiar faces distorted by either death or agony.

With a war cry worthy of Ysgramor himself, Argis launched himself at the Forsworn, wanting nothing but to take vengeance upon those responsible for this carnage. He sent one of his adversaries sprawling as he knocked into him, stabbing his sword through the man's chest. Luck was not with him, because his blade got stuck. Stepping on the man for leverage, he wrenched it out by brute force, ripping a part of the bawling man's ribcage out with it. He would never have parried the second Forsworn's attack, but thankfully a familiar figure appeared beside him. Marta, bless her, had come to his aid.

By now Argis's shield was in tatters and when he blocked a particularly powerful stroke, it fell apart completely. Finding himself without a means of defence, Argis cursed vividly, as he hastily beat a retreat, but his feet tangled in something and he was sent sprawling. Of all things Argis had managed to stumble across the dead horse. Above him he heard the advancing Reachman laugh out. Struggling wildly, but unsuccessfully to get up, he stilled when one of his flailing hands connected with something beneath the dirt. He saw his adversary come to a stand above him and raise his blade. As it descended, he tugged with all his strength, managing to wrench a pavise from the sludge and to knock aside the Forsworn man’s sword and judging by the sound, to break his hand. Argis slashed his sword at him, because the angle was wrong for stabbing. The blow would have disembowelled his attacker, but Argis' sword was blunted so badly, it was little better than a club. He used it as such, continuing to rain blows down upon the Reachman, until his foe stopped moving.

Crawling out of the muck on all fours, Argis glanced at his new shield. It was painted yellow and had probably belonged to the messenger. Not that it had done him much good. Looking around he felt panic rise in his chest.

It was just him and Marta left.

Argis was on the defensive against a Forsworn man wielding two swords, when he saw a second enemy trying to circle him. Marta was busy fighting somewhere out of his sight.

"KILL HIM," Argis roared at her, because there was no way he could defend himself against two attackers, hard-pressed as he was already. "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

At first it seemed that she would not be able to disengage, but she managed to cut her adversary down, before she surprised the Forsworn whose entire focus was on Argis. Marta's cry of triumph was cut short, turning into a wet gurgle as a crossbow bolt ripped out her throat. Fixing beseeching eyes on Argis, she who had saved his live died, as he could do nothing in return to help her.

Now he was truly alone.

He heaved his pavise up and a second crossbow bold punched through the leather and wood, the tip protruding half an inch from Argis' eye. If he let the marksman have another shot, chances were he would not survive it. Crying his defiance in the face of his enemies, he rushed through the gap, going after the shooter. How long he fought he did not know, but while he had felt exhausted before, now he was dead tired. Argis' sword hand shook and he could no longer lift the heavy shield. When he slipped and fell, he had no strength left to get up. "What was the point of fighting anyway?" he thought as he lay in the bloody mire that he himself would soon become a part of. He stared up at the Forsworn advancing at him, knowing that he was looking at his death.

Therefore, it was in utter disbelief as he watched his attacker's head disintegrate beneath a powerful blow. The corpse fell on him, trapping him under its weight, until he managed to kick himself free.

Rescue had come in the form of a lanky, light blonde youth who kept the Reachman at distance by flailing around with two axes like a madman; though it was evident he had no inkling about fighting. At first Argis thought he was hallucinating or that maybe some saint had come to spirit him off to Sovngarde. Only he did not think that ghosts would shout at him to "Get his damned, bloody, sodden arse up and _fight_!!"

 

xxxx

 

Ulfric Stormcloak calmly watched the battle that waged around him. When the Reachmen stormed at them from behind, it did not come as a surprise to him. He had planned ahead, and put the recruits from the defensive forces in the back. It meant that most of those recruits would pay with their lives, but while it was unfortunate, he would not risk the lives of fully-trained, seasoned warriors. Thus, he held his regular troops back and let the Forsworn wear themselves out before he ordered his soldiers to attack one flank, whilst he himself led the cavalry charge against the other. Between themselves they had managed to crush the Forsworn.

But he had not forgotten the infantry within the city. Ulfric sent a messenger to tell them to retreat, but so far, none had come out and he knew that something must have gone terribly wrong.

With the army at his back he marched into Markarth only to find himself taken aback. It was not the bloodbath that shocked him, however, nor the second wall, but the sight of a single soldier holding his own against a number of Forsworn. The warrior's hair might have been blonde, but grime and blood had stained it a reddish brown. In fact, there was not much of him visible beneath the dirt, covered as he was from head to toes in blood.

"For the Nord!" Ulfric bellowed, as he charged the remaining Forsworn, pleased to see when they drew back in fear, as they should. Soon he realized that it was not him they retreated from, but the lone warrior, who was roaring some garbled nonsense, half of which consisted of cures, at the top of his lungs, crying at the same time as he wielded his sword with such frenzy, Ulfric half believed him to be possessed.

When the last Reachman attacked, the power of Argis' counterattack took off half of his head. The remaining Forsworn pointed at him, shouting ‘laoch bás’, bringer of death, _demon,_ and fleeing before his wrath. Argis would have collapsed then and there, had not somebody held him up.

Seeing that the warrior was not as alone as Ulfric had at first believed him to be, he nonetheless turned to the man at his side. "Lieutenant, take care of him."

"Yes, sir," answered the man, whose name was Carsten. He approached the soldier, who was half-carried, half-dragged by a tall blonde youth. Carsten recognized the warrior; he had been the last to join the second regiment.

"Here, let me help you, lad," he told the struggling boy. Together they managed to get Argis away from the carnage, and into an abandoned, if roofless house, where he broke down in a sobbing mess.

"I'll be back soon, watch over him," Carsten said to his helper, before running out of the house. He had to find some things and no time to lose. Extreme fatigue and shock could kill a man as easily as an untreated wound.

 oooo

Back in the ruin of a house Argis felt somebody sink down next to him.

"Hey, it's over," his companion said in such a thick brogue that Argis stared at him, uncomprehending. Friendly blue eyes looked back at him. Seeing the wide-eyed look the soldier gave him, even as he heavily gulped for air, the blonde tried again. "It's over, and you're alive. You're fine," he said, patting the panicked man's shoulder. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Argis," Argis croaked out, his throat feeling as if it was on fire.

"I'm Hákan. Oh, look, there's your friend," the boy named Hákan told Argis, not knowing that Carsten was Argis' commander, not his friend.

The lieutenant entered, carrying a heavy bundle under his arms, out of which he pulled out a set of clean clothes, a pallet and a heavy woollen blanket, as well as several flasks and a loaf of bread. "I have to join Ulfric. You'll keep an eye on him, won't you?" Carsten asked Hákan, who nodded mutely.

Argis wanted nothing more than to get out of his garments, that were soiled in more ways than one, but his hands shook so badly, he could not get his armour's straps open.

"Here, let me help you," Hákan said and Argis felt himself being undressed like he was some infant or an imbecile. He could not muster the energy to care, let alone protest and he did feel a thousandfold better once he put on the clean clothing. Hákan uncorked one of the flasks and passed it to him and Argis drank deeply, only now noticing how thirsty he had been, how parched his throat felt. The water had a herbal, somewhat bitter taste, but right now it was the most delicious thing to him.

There were screams coming from further inside the city, but he was so tired, he slumped against the wall and closed his eyes. The last thing Argis knew was that he was covered by a thick, warm blanket.

 

xxxx

 

The killing did not stop when the battle was over. As the last rays of sunlight glinted off their polished armour, soldiers executed every able bodied man and woman who did not pick up arms against the remaining Forsworn. On that day the streets of Markarth ran red.


	51. HT

Argis blearily opened his eyes, blinking against the bright light. The sun was high in the sky and his first thought was that he had overslept and that Carsten was going to skin him. He did not get much further, because then he _remembered_ and he felt like he was drowning in the tidal wave of memories that washed over him, just as the sea washes over the unwary. Argis shot upright, looking around himself frantically. He was inside a house, although it wasn't much of one, considering it was missing the roof. He did not recall how he got there.

"I see you're awake," a voice from the corner said, making him jump. "It's 'bout time, too."

It was the boy speaking, the one who had saved his life. Hákan, Argis thought and felt pathetic by how much comforted he was by the other's presence. Argis tried to speak, but his throat was so abused, he could not get a sound out.

Hákan continued, oblivious to Argis' attempts of speech, in such a thick accent, Argis understood only about one third of what he was saying. "You gave us quite a scare, you know? Your commander, the Gray One that is, told me to watch over you, so I did. He brought you a sleeping draught that I was supposed to give to you should you have trouble sleeping. ‘Cept I kind of got the flasks mixed up and you drank the whole lot of it instead of the water. Commander was pretty pissed too, but he said there was nothin’ for it, but to wait it out. You were out for two days, did you know?" He grinned at Argis like being unconscious for such a length of time was some great accomplishment. "Oh, and I almost forgot. He said he wanted to see you when you came around, which you just did."

Hákan walked over and helped a dumbfound Argis to his feet. "Here, you might want to drink this. It's just water this time." Argis happily accepted the water, though upon hearing how his friend had managed to drug him once he could not help but be somewhat suspicious.

We better get goin', I don't fancy getting another scolding," Hákan continued and motioned for Argis to follow him. Argis did so without protest. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton and he had yet to have a single coherent thought. Something was wrong with eyes too, because the afternoon light was so harsh he had to shield his face with his arm. His right arm, as could not lift his left. It spiked a small spark of curiosity within Argis, but it was soon quenched when a hand grabbed his wrist and steered him along. Argis' movements were sluggish and he felt strangely detached from everything that was going around him, almost as if he was drunk. They made their way through the city and finally Hákan knocked on a door that opened and Argis stepped into a blessedly dim interior.

"Divines, he looks half-asleep," Carsten said as Argis lethargically blinked up at him. Argis remembered that there was something important about the man, but he did not care and even as his mind whispered to _salute_ , his body disobeyed.

Turning back to Hákan the lieutenant frowned. "Did he eat anything before you dragged him here?"

The blonde looked abashed. "Erm, no."

Sighing Carsten manoeuvred Argis to a table and put a steaming bowl of something in front of him ordering him to "eat!" in a tone that brooked no argument. Argis did not much care for the soup, except that it was liquid and did not aggrieve his throat too much, as he methodically started to spoon it up.

"Is there anything I can do?" Hákan asked from where he was hovering in the doorway

"Thank you boy, you did quite enough. It seems a wonder Argis survived your ministrations," Carsten ground out and would have shoved the door closed in the boy's face. Instead he added "You can go find a bathtub, bring it here and fill it up with hot water." The blonde nodded mutely and turned to leave, but a soft rasp stopped him.

"Hákan," Agris got out, despite his throat feeling like he had a load of iron filings stuck in it. "Thank you."

Instantly the hangdog expression changed into a dazzling smile and Hákan waved Argis goodbye and practically skipped down the street, whistling as he went.

"He drugs, starves and drags you around whilst you're barely conscious and you thank him for it?" Carsten sounded incredulous.

"He saved my life," Argis whispered, sincere though he could barely muster the energy to keep his eyes open.

"Did he now?" the lieutenant looked thoughtful, but did not comment further.

For the next couple of hours Argis fitfully slept off the last traces of the sleeping potion. When he awoke, Carsten was nowhere in sight, but there was a full bathtub awaiting him and Argis did not waste any time before he made good use of it. It took him what seemed like hours to get the dirt and grime off and out of his hair, which was tangled so badly, he almost despaired trying to comb it out. In the end, cutting out the worst snarls did the trick. By the time he was finished the water had turned from lukewarm to cold and a murky brown in colour.

In the meantime the lieutenant returned, carrying in a big chest. Seeing Argis sit on the bed, a somewhat forlorn look at his face, Carsten sat down next to him.

"How are you feeling, son?"

Argis must have looked as shocked as he felt. For a year the only way Carsten had addressed his charges was ‘recruit’ or ‘boy’. But Argis saw only genuine concern in the lieutenant's eyes. How did he feel? Frankly, he did not know himself. For a year he had trained for the confrontation with the Forsworn, though nothing had prepared him for what he had faced in battle. Mulling over the other man's question he finally asked shakily "What am I going to do now?"

Carsten sighed It would be a shame to let Argis fall into the dark chasm of hopelessness and drink that had claimed so many warriors already, those who were not able to forget, yet not ready to move on.

"As a man who's seen more war than peace, let me give you some advice, son. Life goes on. Don't waste time looking behind; nothing's gonna change the past. Find a purpose, something you like, something that makes you happy and keep at it. Time will help. "

It was good counsel, Argis thought, except for one minor detail. "I'm a farmer. What purpose will I find?" After some contemplation he softly added "I don't think I can go back and live like all of this has never happened."

"Maybe you won't have to." When he caught sight of the confused look on Argis' face, the lieutenant shook his head. "That's all I can say for now. Tomorrow there will be a tribute to all those who distinguished themselves on the field of battle. You will receive special honors for holding the gap against the enemy. He gave the chest a small kick adding "You'll find suitable clothes and armour in here. Don't get used to them though, they're just for show. "

"You know?"

Chuckling, Carsten replied "I'm afraid everyone knows. You're a hero now. Your friend did not waste any time in spreading the word around, either. Story gets more embellished anytime I hear it."

"Oh." Argis had no idea how to respond. He should be happy and proud, right? Instead, he felt vaguely sick. There had been nothing heroic in his struggle to survive, nor in how his friends had been butchered.

"I don't feel like a hero."

"I bet you don't." There was an uncomfortable silence, before Carsten tried to lighten the mood. "Ulfric wanted to address the soldiers two days ago, but we had to postpone the ceremony, as the man of the hour was out cold."

"I'm sorry."

Carsten snorted, the whole accident with Argis downing the entire sleeping potion was rather amusing. "Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong. I suggest you get some more rest now. Tomorrow at midday I will escort you. And tell ‘the blonde pain in the arse’, he's to come, too. There's something for him in the chest as well."

 oooo

On the morning of the next day Argis was spared the task of looking for Hákan, because he came to pay Argis a visit, greeting Argis with his customary grin.

"You're lookin' better. But that's not sayin' much, you could hardly look worse. Honestly, I've seen a drowned rat it a gutter and it had been a more cheerful sight. Hey, did you know there's a parade today? Are you going? Do you think they'll let me watch?

Argis had to smile at the endless chatter. He surprised the boy by saying that yes, he did know there was a parade, yes, he was going and Hákan was coming with him. Their conversation was mostly one-sided, a fact that neither of them seemed to mind, though at last Argis' curiosity got the better of him.

"Where did you come from?"

"I live here, in Markarth." Hákan gave Argis a look that clearly said that it was a dumb question.

"No, I meant… ," Argis faltered for a moment under the onslaught of memories "...I meant on the day of the battle."

"Oh." Hákan contemplated what to say before resuming "I saw you from where I live. The soldiers, I mean. I watched the battle and I saw when it went wrong." He cast Argis' a worried glance, but Argis just nodded for him to continue. "When it was just you two, I thought you might make it, there weren't that many Forsworn left, after all. But when... I...I had to help." At this point Hákan stuttered somewhat "I could not watch them kill you, so I grabbed those axes and ran out, thought I could surprise the Forsworn. It wasn't that hard, they were so focused on you, they never saw me coming."

"You are very brave, you know?" Hákan suddenly blurted out, flushing a deep red.

Argis felt somewhat embarrassed by the compliment. He coughed to cover it up, muttering a "Thanks," and quickly changing the topic. "You said you live here. Does that mean there are other people in Markarth?"

"Yeah, it's a big city, people live here."

"It's just, we thought the Forsworn had killed everybody," Argis explained hastily.

"Nu-uh. They killed lots of people, but they needed others to work for them."

Argis did not recall seeing anybody other than Hákan and Carsten since the battle. Had there been civilians on the streets? Inebriated as he had been when they walked up to the lieutenant's house, his recollection was rather hazy.

There was something else that was nagging on Argis' mind, however. Turning to his companion he asked "How old are you?"

"Four-and-ten or maybe it's five-and-ten now, I dunno," Hákan shrugged negligently.

Argis had not thought that Hákan was that young, mostly because he was as tall as Argis already. He certainly acted his age though, when he found out what was inside the chest. Then again, Argis himself was struck speechless, as he beheld the fine clothes and a polished set of armour. He had never seen their like before.

Midday arrived and with it Carsten to escort them. Hákan seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, strutting as he was through the streets. Argis could not help but laugh, but instead of feeling offended Hákan flashed him one of his grins and continued, solely for Argis' amusement while Carsten tried to incinerate the youth with his glares.

Of the four hundred recruits that had formed the first and second heavy infantry regiment fifteen had survived the battle. There would have been three more, except that Ulfric had them hanged for desertion. Argis was thankful the parade did not take place where the traitors still hung from the gibbet. He did have to fight the urge to throw up though when they entered the main square and several hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him. There was a loud trumpet blast and then the soldiers came to attention, saluting. Saluting him, Argis realized with a sudden pang. He made his way over to his honorary position and mentally thanked Carsten for all those hours of exercising that allowed him to keep his posture.

Shortly after Argis first caught sight of Ulfric Stormcloak who was such an impressing figure, Argis quickly forwent paying attention to the ceremony in favour of gawking. He did have a wake-up call when the object of his admiration came to a halt in front of him, addressing Argis directly.

"Argis, I have been told of how you alone held the gap against a multitude of Forsworn, until our main forces arrived. You have been a stronghold against your enemy; henceforth you shall be known as such, ‘Argis the Bulwark’. Let this title bring pride to any true Nord and be a warning to your foes. As a reward for your services, you will be granted the opportunity to receive special training with the honorary guard of Markarth. The expensed will be paid in full by the hold of the Reach. Is there something you would like to say, Argis?

Argis' stomach churned and his throat felt dry, but he still managed to utter the following words: "Sir, I wasn't alone."

There was a chorus of gasps and mutters, but Ulfric looked pleased. "So I have heard. A brave warrior came to your aid when the need was great. What is your name, soldier?" the Jarl of Windhrlm asked, turning to Hákan, whose smile turned sour before entirely leaving his face.

Hákan looked stunned, before he silently muttered "I'm no soldier. 'M just a serf. Name's Hákan."

The surprise was clearly visible on Ulfric's face and Argis stared at his friend in shock. Serfs were the servile peasants, man not free to own land or titles and property of their freeholder.

Ulfric quickly regained his composure and announced in a booming voice "As of today, Hákan, I name you a free man of Skyrim. You too shall be granted free training and every army should be glad to have such a fine warrior amidst its ranks."

A thunderous applause followed the proclamation. In which Argis could hear Hákan repeat "I'm a free man. I'm a free man. Argis, did you hear?" while practically bouncing up and down. He was so excited, Carsten had to step on his toes to shut him up.

The rest of the ceremony passed rather quickly.

 

xxxx

 

Once they were back at the house, Argis wasted no time in changing into clothes that he was comfortable in. Carsten had dismissed him for the day and he had a task to do, something that had been on his mind ever since he woke up yesterday evening. The next couple of hours Argis attempted to gain some information on his brothers. After two days the army was finally getting their lists together and he succeeded, though afterwards he almost wished that he didn't.

Argis had been sitting at his brother's bedside for the past two days, but Olav refused to acknowledge him.

Olav's leg was in a splint, shattered from when his horse fell on him. He had continued to fight despite his injury, but his luck had run out that day and he had lost half of his swordhand when the crossguard of his sword gave way, whilst he had blocked an enemy blow. It was a common occurrence with inferior weapons.

When Argis had found his brother in an infirmary outside of Markarth their reconciliation had been strained, the joy marred by the news Argis had to break to Olav.

"Olav," Argis did not know how to say it. He had been devastated when he heard it. "Eric's dead."

"No." Olav was shaking his head in denial. "No, he can't be. You're lying."

"I would not..."

"LIAR!!" Olav began to scream and thrash on his sickbed so violently it took several orderlies to hold him down. The others shot Argis filthy glances, and he left, the sound of Olav's sobbing haunting h him. When Argis came back the other day, he was met with silence, though he refused to leave his brothers bedside.

In the evening Carsten got a hold of Argis and peppered him with questions concerning his future training in Markarth and whether he was going to accept. Finally he got frustrated by Argis' vague answers. "I hope you understand that this is a unique opportunity."

"I do," Argis assured him. There were however other things that occupied his mind at present. "With permission, sir, I would like to visit my family. And I have to get my brother home. He has been wounded and cannot walk."

"How do you plan on getting him home, then?" Carsten, ever the practical man, asked.

"I don't know, sir," Argis answered honestly.

Carsten studied Argis thoroughly, before giving a curt nod, as if he had just felled a decision. "I can get you a horse-drawn caravan. You know how to take care of a horse, lad?"

"I do, sir." They have had horses in the Cove, though Gundar had never owned one. Like any boy Argis had been fascinated with the big animals.

"It'll take some time to rebuild the city and to clean up. Tell you what, you go now and you're still a soldier and have to be formally discharged. You have until the month's out to return the horse and make the decision, how's that sound?"

His lieutenant's kindness surprised Argis. Why did the man care? Whatever the reason, Argis could not afford to turn down help. He said his farewells to Hákan, who looked absolutely crestfallen upon hearing that Argis was leaving the city.

"You will come back, right?" he asked, not for the first time.

"I will," Argis promised him. He was going to miss his friend, whose endless chatter and cheerful demeanour had been a source of comfort to Argis. "I have to return the horse and cart anyway."

When the physician declared Olav stable enough to travel, Argis readied the horse and cart. Under any other circumstanced Argis would have been excited to have his own horse, even if it was just for a month, but now he could barely muster any enthusiasm. It did not help that Olav's attitude towards him was worse than ever. He felt the hatred in his brother's gaze when he watched Olav try to awkwardly hobble with the help of a pair of heavy crutches.

"I don't need you," Olav hissed when Argis moved to help him. "I'll manage on my own!"

"Manage away, then," Argis replied, feeling anger rising. He turned around and walked back to the cart, climbing in the driver's seat. Let the pig-headed fool have his way. If he fell on his nose it wasn't Argis' fault, or his concern.

Their journey home passed in near hostile silence. What Argis had done to deserve such treatment he did not know. There was one moment when he believed that maybe the rift between him and his brother could be mended. After two days Olav finally broke the quiet.

"Eric was a good man. How could he die?" Olav's voice was streaked with grief and Argis thought that maybe that was what made his brother lash out at him.

But then Olav continued. "How could he die and you live? I wish it was the other way round. It should have been."

His words cut deep and they still rang in Argis' ears, when they reached the outskirts of the Cove in the evening.

_It should have been you._

He heard them when the first farmers caught sight of them, waving and cheering, crowding their cart and begging for information in their sons and daughters.

_It should have been you._

They carried on the breeze when Gundar and Ivanna stormed out of the house, their joyful expressions crumbling away as they looked down the road, praying for a second cart to appear.

_It should have been you._

When they held a ceremony for the departed, Argis could not look his family in the eyes, afraid they would blame him, too.

Nothing had changed around the farm, yet everything was different. With every passing day Argis became more conscious of the fact, that somehow, he no longer belonged here, in this place that had been his home for sixteen years. Maybe it was cowardice that drove him; the unwillingness to face Olav's injuries, his father's and mother's quiet sorrow that made him leave. Maybe he did not want to be in a place where he was constantly reminded that their family had been torn apart, conscious of the gaping hole where Eric should have been. In the end it did not matter. He yoked the mare Carsten lent him to the caravan and set out once again, back towards Markarth. Argis did not look back and when he passed the last buildings and fields that were the border of the Cove, he at long last breathed a sigh of relief.


	52. HT

At the age of eight-and-ten Argis was the youngest warrior in Markarth's history to receive training as a housecarl, or húskarl, as was the proper Nord term. There is a significant difference between a good fighter and a housecarl, who fights not only for himself, but for a Thane or another person of importance, whom he is sworn to serve and protect. That is why usually only experienced warriors are chosen to have the honour, but Ulfric must have pulled a few strings with the Jarl and Argis was allowed to participate.

In theory, anybody could become a housecarl. If two persons agreed that one would safeguard the other, that person became a housecarl in name.

True húskarla however underwent an education that consisted of far more than just weapons training. Argis also learned how to ride a horse, he studied the letters, how to read and write them and he attended lessons in history, geography and strategy. The main focus of his training however, was how to guard and defend a person and the acceptance of the fact that one day he might have to lay down his own life in order to save another.

Argis had joined Ulfric's army to protect his family, but his brothers had followed him and he had lost them both, though in different ways. If he could not even keep his family from harm, what good would he be as a housecarl? These doubts nagged on Argis' mind when he lay awake at night, tired, yet too agitated to fall asleep. In the darkness of the barracks he swore that this time he would make it right.

Not long after Argis had signed up for special training, Hákan had left with Carsten for Windhelm, where he was to receive his own training. Farewell was harder than it should have been, considering they had known each other a scant few months. It was a consolation that when Argis learned to write he could send letters now and then. Letters, which were answered, usually by a professional scribe, though Hákan signed them, his name probably being the only thing he could write.

In a city that was still mostly foreign to him and with his friend gone Argis threw himself into training with a single-mindedness that led to him being one of the most renowned warriors of Markarth within two year's time.

Fate dealt him a heavy blow when during a foray against the Forsworn, who had grown bold enough to attack some outlying farms, Argis was injured by a barbed javelin. The wound was grievous, but his comrades got him back to Markarth and its healers in time, otherwise he might not have made it. Argis survived and in time he healed, but due to being bedridden for a long time he was rendered unable to continue his training as a housecarl and dropped out, weakened in body and in spirit.

He did not give up, however, telling himself that it was just a setback, a minor inconvenience. Thus Argis hung on, grit his teeth and swore to regain his former shape. A feat that most deemed unlikely and in the end Argis was proud to prove them wrong, though it took him another two years to recover fully.

He learned an essential lesson during those years: the importance of the stubborn will to carry on. Jarl Igmund was so impressed by his warrior’s dedication that he decided to allow him to begin housecarl training anew.

The training was rigorous, lasting six years and less than one fourth of the trainees saw it through to the end. Most dropped out of their own volition when they could no longer stand the strain, though this time they had a special reason to continue. The Jarl's own housecarl was getting too old to see to his duties and although normally the position was for a lifetime, it was possible to release the housecarl honourably from his services, especially if he had served faithfully for as long as Karsten had. Karsten had been Jarl Hrolfdir's housecarl, but was assigned to the Jarl's son, Igmund, when the boy had come of age. He had saved the future Jarl's life by getting him out of Markarth, even though the Forsworn were almost at the city's doorstep. Old age spared none though and within a few years Jarl Igmund and Karsten would have to choose Karsten's successor. The chances were high it would be somebody from the group of thirty trainees of which Argis was a part of.

Húskarl to the Jarl was the highest position a simple soldier could reach, unless he would be to do something truly remarkable and be rewarded the title of Thane.

Halfway through Argis' training an old friend of his put in an appearance.

After seven years Argis barely recognized the man that strode into the practice grounds one afternoon. Time had changed Hákan. He had been lanky, too thin to be healthy, but hard work and proper food had filled him out. Now he stood half a head over Argis, which made him tower head and shoulders over most everybody else and he had the breadth of shoulders to match his height. His light blonde hair had a multitude of carefully woven braids and he had grown a short, neat beard, not unlike Argis himself.

Some things remained unchanged, though. There was the same broad smile on his face and the same joy shone in his eyes, coupled with a mischievous glint. Hákan's hug nearly lifted Argis off his feet and it might have cracked a few ribs in the process, but Argis laughed it off, pounding on his friend's back, delighted that they would meet again.

Later, Argis took Hákan drinking and they talked through the night, getting reacquainted and the words flowed easily between them, despite the fact that they were practically strangers. It turned out Hákan had decided to return to Markarth for good, leaving the services of the army of Eastmarch, something he could only afford to do because a certain grumpy lieutenant had adopted him. He had missed the city of his birth and wanted to join the soldiers. Argis invited Hákan to stay with him, for he owned a small home close to the soldier's quarters. The reimbursement for his services in the battle for Markarth had been very generous and he had hardly any expenses at all with his training being funded. So Hákan moved in and Argis' home became a bit cramped, though a lot more comfortable. He never moved out again.

They did not become intimate, not for some time, until a drunken night that led to them jouncing a bed in the back of one of the barracks. Next day Argis' memories of what had occurred had been hazy, but he remembered that while some soldiers shoot him nasty glares, others grinned and gave him the thumbs up. Hákan was not Argis' first lover, but he was the first one the Nord was _in love_ with and the two of them had been together ever since.

Hákan liked to drink, to fight and to fuck and in Argis he had found someone with whom he could engage in all three activities.

 

xxxx

 

Of the thirty trainees five completed their education. Argis did not only pass the final tests, he exceeded at them. Over the years he had become somewhat of a celebrity and the name ‘Argis the Bulwark’ was famous throughout the hold of the Reach. When the festivities for the election of the Jarl's new húskarl began, the entire city of Markarth was in an uproar. People did not only enjoy the celebrations, they also cheered on their favourite competitors and took bets on who would be the Jarl's choice.

Only the Proving remained, a custom that served tradition far more than any purpose. The housecarls would take a few chosen soldiers and lead them against the Jarl's enemies. Their targets had already been picked out. Two bandit camps, a band of robbers, the lair of a bear that had caused some trouble by killing livestock and a small group of Forsworn. The Jarl's scouts had located and observed them and the procedure was mainly to entertain the masses. The victors would return to Markarth, parade through the streets, offer Jarl Igmund his services and he would finally be able to name one of them his húskarl. Both Igmund and Karsten had no doubt who would have the honour.

All trainees were capable, but only one was outstanding.

The person in question was altogether glad to be able to escape the fuss and spend a beautiful summer day outside Markarth's walls, enjoying the peace and quiet of the parks surrounding the city. It was hard to believe that once a battle had raged in this valley. After the Forsworn Uprising Markarth had prospered, and the Jarl had ordered the green area built as a sign of the city's wealth, because there was no space inside the city of stone for that sort of thing. Mostly the park consisted of a hedge, lots of grass, some trees and a few flowerbeds. And what must have been the least comfortable stone benches in all of Tamriel.

None of that mattered to Hákan, who was lying stretched out on his back, while Argis used his lover as a backrest, whilst eating his lunch that he had brought with him. From time to time Hákan nicked some food from Argis. He was risking a fist to the face, the Divines knew Argis guarded his meals more closely than a starving wolf, but what fun was the game without a little risk?

Argis finished eating, brushed off the crumbs and tackled Hákan, starting a wrestling match that had them laughing and swearing at each other. It was all in good fun and Hákan let it go on for a while before he put his greater weight and strength to use, pinning his lover to the ground. Argis huffed in mock annoyance, but there was no force behind it. He had started their tussle after all and he knew well that when it came to unarmed combat, be it brawling or wrestling, he did not stand a chance against Hákan. No one did.

Hákan grinned down at his captive, before leaning down and kissing Argis languidly, who responded with a happy hum when the full, warm weight of his lover settled over him. He let their kiss deepen, his hands trailing down Hákan's chest, its plains hard and defined even through the soft fabric of the shirt, to Hákan's hips and beyond, kneading the muscles suggestively and eliciting a groan from the man above him. Then, without a warning Argis dug his fingers in the bigger man's sides.

Hákan was off him in the blink of an eye, casting Argis a wounded look. "That's not very nice." He wagged his finger at Argis' face, adding "Tickling's not fair."

Argis could see the physical effect their closeness had on his lover, but if he allowed it to continue, they'd end up rutting in the park like two animals in heat. Not exactly appropriate behaviour for a man in the position he was aiming at. So he tried to slow his breathing and not show how very affected he was himself, taking his time to stretch out in the grass and to grin up at Hákan, though his smile did not stay long before it faded slowly, leaving behind a frown as Argis continued staring up into the endless blue of the sky.

Hákan had been dealing with Argis' mood for the past days, trying to cheer him up by distracting him from his doubts. With sex, usually. Which was more or less out of the question here in the open, not that they would have let propriety stop them a year ago. But húskarl to the Jarl was going to change his lover, it already had, and Hákan was not sure if it was for the better. Oh, Argis was as respected as ever, but strangely his fame and the promise of a new position brought him little joy and a lot of unease.

He let himself plop down beside Argis, resting one hand on the other man's belly and shaking him slightly. "Oi, quit yar worrying already."

Argis' only reply was a rueful twitch of his lips. He had tried hard to keep up a cheerful facade, but Hákan knew him too well and had caught him brooding. He had been doing it a lot lately. This entire business with the selection and the festivities was wearing him out. Maybe he would be able to catch a break once all of it was over.

"A few more days and the Jarl's gonna choose, you, 'cause, who else is there? That dour toad Faleen?" Hákan snorted, the notion was just ridiculous. Poking Argis gently in the side he continued "I'll get you out and we'll get so drunk, we won't be able to walk straight for a week. How's that sound?"

Laughing out loud Argis shook his head. "It sounds great." He did not mention that once he was in the Jarl's service, he probably would no longer be able to go carousing at a whim. He was pulled out of thoughts when Hákan took his hands and tugged him into a sitting position.

"Here, I got something for you." Hákan reached into his pack for a wrapped bundle that Argis had noticed, but had not asked about. "For luck."

Argis unwrapped the cloth to reveal a beautiful dagger. The hilt was made from rosewood and it had grooves filled with braided wire for a secure grip. Argis did not test the edge. He knew it would be razor sharp.

Hákan watched Argis admire the blade and try out its grip with a gentle smile. It was not the gift he wanted to give his lover, but so far he had found neither the courage nor the proper time to follow his heart's desire. For four years Argis and him had been a couple, which was an unusually long time to be together without any commitment and Hákan firmly believed they belonged together, after all, fate had let them towards each other all those years ago on the battlefield. The amulet was a familiar weight in his pocket. He carried it with him at all times, though he had never put it on. He had not been contemplating married life for long, but lately he felt that maybe he was ready to settle down with the one person he loved. All he had to do was take the amulet and propose. So far, the only thing standing in his way was Argis himself. Or rather, his ambition. Hákan knew Argis would not find any peace, not until he succeed in what he was striving for. He admired his lover's strength of purpose, but Hákan nevertheless looked forward to a time when there would not be just another accomplishment standing between the two of them.

"It's beautiful." Argis beamed at him and leaned in to brush his lips tenderly against Hákan's. "But you did not have to get me anything. After all, I'm going to have you with me, what more could I want?"

Hákan did not hesitate. "I can think of something," he said huskily.

They left shortly after, heading back home and making the most of the afternoon and the night.

 

xxxx

 

Argis set out with a group of ten soldiers plus Hákan and Thurek, who was no soldier and in Argis' opinion far too young to accompany them, but would trail after Hákan anyway, who was like a father to the boy. Hákan had a habit of picking up strays, be they human or animal, like the alley cat he had brought home once.

Their destination was the group of Forsworn, who had settled down in some ruins too close to Markarth. It would take them three days to get there and so they took two horses to carry supplies for the men. They had received reports from the Jar's scouts and knew exactly about their target's position and strength. The night before the planned attack their camp was dark and silent, so as not to alert their enemy to their presence. They would attack at dawn, when hopefully the Forsworn would be still asleep. If not, the soldiers still had the advantage of the sun rising behind them, blinding their foes.

In the morning Hákan helped Argis secure the last buckles on the back, before turning his lover around, pulling him close and resting their brows together. It was almost a rite, a few seconds that belonged only to themselves; to forget about the others and the oncoming fight. They stepped back as one and Argis mustered Hákan, who was habitually clad only in his pants and blue warpaint, as he claimed he did not like getting his clothes bloody. Armed with two axes and he looked just like the barbarian he was, right down to his braided hair, which was immaculate. He must have gotten, up extra early to get it right, a fact that amused Argis no end.

Stepping out of their tent, Argis assumed his role as commander, the burden of responsibility a familiar weight on his shoulders. He split the men in half and Hákan's and his own group would attack from different sides, working their way towards each other. Thurek, too young and inexperienced to join the fight would remain behind and guard their camp. Not that it needed protection; that was just Hákan's way of keeping the boy out of trouble.

"Alright, let's get this over with," Argis muttered to Rolfrik, his second in command, and waved at the remaining four men to follow him.

Hákan's group moved off in the other direction, the big Nord looking over his shoulder, laughing as tossed back at Argis "I'll leave some Forsworn for you to fight! If you hurry up!"

They crept up to the camp unnoticed, after Rolfrik had taken out a lonely sentry with one precise shot.

The fight was going as planned. They had managed to surprise the Forsworn and were currently driving the last of them towards the middle of the camp, where a crumbling watchtower stood. Argis saw Hákan leading his soldiers not far away, engaged in a similar way. That was when a thunderous explosion shook the camp, taking out two or three of Hákan's men. An explosion like this could only come from magic.

There had been no mention of a briarheart in the scout's reports. The appearance of the spellcaster presented a problem; they had nobody to counter the magic attacks. "Where did they get a briarheart from?" Argis heard one of the soldiers cry out.

The answer to the question lurked in the tower, but Argis never saw the hagraven step out of the decrepit building. Hákan did. He charged the monstrous witch, burying one of his axes in her neck, but not in time. Whatever foul spell she had cast, it sent Argis flying through the air. He smashed into some rocks and slid to the ground, where he lay unmoving in a broken heap, like a puppet whose stings had been cut.

"Argis!" Hákan yelled, but he could not look after his lover just yet, because there were still Forsworn inside the tower. With a bellow of rage, Hákan stormed into their midst.

 oooo

Seeing the hagraven fall, the briarheart watched the great warrior storm the tower, his axes wreaking havoc amongst his enemies. The Nord was a fearsome opponent, one who had claimed many lives already. The briarheart gauged his options and with a shrug he began casting.

 oooo

Argis was consumed by pain. From where he was lying on the ground, the left side of his face pressed into the dirt, he could barely make out Hákan, the warrior's blonde hair glowing golden in the rising sum like a halo. He put down the hagraven and entered the watchtower, disappearing from Argis' fading sight.

Moments later a huge ball of fire hit the tower, exploding within and toppling the already crumbling structure.

Argis' heart stopped. No, this could not be happening. Please, Talos, let it be just a hallucination of his. "NO!" he heard himself shouting, his frantic pulse a hum in his ears. "Nooo!! HÁKAN!!!"

He tried to get up, but the effort sent a spike of such agony through his body, his vision blacked out completely. He continued to scream even though it hurt, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish of his soul. His chest felt like somebody had plunged a red-hot knife through it and was slowly twisting it around, ripping out his heart in the process. Argis kept calling after his lover, until his breath stuttered and finally, with one last tormented cry it faltered.

 

xxxx

 

Rolfrik drew his last arrow and with a deep breath he nocked it, risking a glance at the briarheart from his hiding place. He sent a short prayer to Talos, drew his bow and stepped out from cover. His aim was true and the arrow punched straight through the chest of the briarheart, extinguishing the glow that emanated from the spellcaster and putting a stop to the man's deadly volley of magic.

With the briarheart dead the fighting was over. He had sacrificed the last of is kinsman in order to deal a crucial blow to the attackers. Of their own men, Rolfrik saw that two were still standing and both looked hurt, though not fatally. He had seen Argis hit by a blinding white flash and watched in horror as the fireball caused the tower to collapse on itself seconds later, burying everybody inside.

He could mourn the dead later, for now his concern was for the living. With a sinking heart Rolfrik made his way over to where he had seen his commander fall.

 

xxxx

 

There were voices, but Argis' ears were ringing and when he opened his eyes his vision swam in and out of focus. It seemed some people were arguing nearby.

"...if his back's broke… ," Argis heard one of the soldiers say and a cold dread gripped him. Oh gods, please no. He could face death, but being crippled for the rest of his life, never to walk again was just too much.

"It's not just his back I'm worried about, it's his head," another voice cut in. Rolfrik, Argis' mind supplied. "We need to turn him around, but carefully. On three!"

Argis must have fainted when they moved him, because when next he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back and there were four faces looking down on him. Just four. Rolfrik, Lars, Fjol and Thurek. Where were the others? Where was Hákan?

He tried to move, to look around, but Rolfrik restrained him. "Don't move," the veteran commanded him, not unkindly. He uncorked a red bottle, a healing potion Argis realized, and knelt next to Argis, telling him calmly to drink.

Argis did not understand. His lover would never leave him alone when he was hurt. He was still gazing around, trying to catch a glimpse of the familiar smile, of a strand of light blonde hair. "Hákan," he ground out. "Where's Hákan?"

Confused as he was, Argis did not miss Rolfrik twitch. Instead of answering the veteran propped the bottle against Argis' lips, repeating his former request. "Drink."

Argis lifted his hand to ward off the man when his eyes lit on a pile of rubble not far from where he was lying. Fjol moved to block his line of sight, but it had been enough to bring the memories back.

The hagraven. Hákan fighting Forsworn in the tower. A fiery flash of light and stones falling. Grief washed over Argis and he felt tears well in his eyes and sobs wracked his damaged body.

Once again he had failed, not able to protect the one thing, the one _person_ who meant more to him than life itself. He did not want to go on. A life without Hákan's smiles and his laughter was dark and dreary and not something Argis wanted to endure. Death would be preferable.

With a desperate strength Argis gripped Rolfrik's wrist. "Please," he wheezed out. "Please let me go. Let me go to Sovngarde." He was imploring the man with tear filled eyes, hoping his friend would understand.

 

xxxx

 

Rolfrik looked at the man who was his friend and commander. They would all mourn Hákan's loss, the big, cheerful warrior had been well-liked by all. Argis though looked devastated. Their relationship had been no secret and for one moment Rolfrik considered to give in to Argis' request, thinking that it might be kinder to let him slip away to the afterlife and the Hall of Valor, where he would be united with his beloved one.

"I'm sorry, my friend," the veteran said softly, before turning to the remaining soldiers. "Hold him down."

Argis tried to fight them off, but he had little strength left and when Rolfrik held his nose closed, it was a choice between drinking the potion and passing out from lack of air. He almost did, but instinct overrode his will and he was forced to gulp down the entire contents of the bottle. The pressure of hands lifted off his body and Argis was left coughing and feeling betrayed. He was aware of the potion healing his body, but no amount of magic would be able to erase his sorrow.

Rolfrik watched the healing process avidly. Apart from the left side of his face, where the magic had struck, Argis had little visible wounds, but he must have sustained heavy internal damage after crashing into the rocks as he had done. The most grievous injury was to his head, a long cut that bled profusely and, if Rolfrik had guessed correctly, a fractured skull. Evidence of severe head trauma was visible, as Argis' left eye had slowly filled with blood, his pupils dilated and uneven in size.

There was a light glow around Argis as the magic mended wounds that would normally take weeks to heal on their own, within minutes. The blood drained from Argis' left eye, but it was left forever milky and unseeing; some damage could not even be repaired by magic.

 

xxxx

 

Despite the healing process leaving him drained, Argis staggered upright. His walk was unsteady, but he was determined to reach the remains of the tower, a mould made from what must have been several tons of stone.

"Hákan!" Argis roared. There was no answer.

Argis attempted to shove a boulder away, but it would not budge. He tried another one, continued digging until his hands were cut open and his nails cracked and bloody, calling out for his lover from time to time, fervently listening for an answer.

It was in vain. Giving up hope at last, Argis let himself collapse next to the heap of ruins. It was an apt description for what his life had become during the course of one day. He remained on the ground, sobbing, until Rolfrik came to pick him up. "We must get away. The sun will set early with the mountains all around us and then predators will come."

Argis let himself be dragged off; he had no strength left to resist. His initial anger at Rolfrik had turned to a feeling of helplessness and finally, apathy. Rolfrik had taken over the command for the moment, leading the few survivors back, towards Markarth. They did not go far though, late as the day already was.

When they set up camp for the night, at least the soldiers turned away to give Argis some semblance of privacy as he wept. He was not the only one. They all could hear Thurek's sniffles throughout the night.

 oooo

The Divines must have abandoned them and their cause entirely, because the next day Argis saw a bulky shadow trailing after them. Why it targeted them when they had left behind a field of corpses just a few miles away they did not know. It was either young and inexperienced or starving and desperate. A group of five was tough prey, but they were vulnerable due to exhaustion. The healing potions took their toll on the body, sustained as they were by the energy of the one who drank the magical concoction.

In any case they built up the fire in the night and kept a close watch. The sabrecat struck in the wee hours of the morning.

Like an arrow the beast shot out of the underground, leaping at the unlucky Fjol, its powerful hind legs and sharp claws disembowelling its victim. The man's agonized shrieks woke Argis up. Dazed, he clumsily reached for his sword and shield.

Of their group, Thurek was the fastest to react. He picked up the oil carafe and tossed into the flames. With a low _thump_ the fire flared up, bigger than men-height and a wave of heat passed over them.

The sabrecat let out a frightened yowl and let off Fjol, but instead of fleeing it went in a frenzy, ears flattened against its skull, it was spitting and hissing at the soldiers. The cat must have been ravenous to brave such opposition.

Argis had no warning as the great predator suddenly lunged at him. He smashed his shield into the cat's face, breaking one of its front teeth, but momentum carried it onwards, knocking Argis flat on his back. Argis felt pain flash across his left cheek, before the sabrecat's front claws found purchase in Argis' chest, cutting deep and if he did not react quickly, his fate would be the same as Fjol's. The impact stunned the warrior and he dropped his sword, but while he fell his hand had grazed something he had forgotten.

For one moment Argis believed he could feel the warmth of sunshine upon his face and he clearly heard Hákan's deep voice. _"For luck"._

Snarling himself, Argis pulled the dagger and stabbed into the sabrecat's throat and, when the beast jerked violently, again, into its eye-socket. The cat had one final spasm, before it fell over and its claws were ripped out of Argis' chest, leaving behind deep gouges. Argis coughed and felt the salty taste of blood fill his mouth.

As suddenly as the fight had begun, it was over again.   Somebody was screaming, a high piercing sound, that was cut off abruptly and when Argis turned his head he saw Rolfrik pulling his blade from Fjol's chest, putting a swift end to the man's suffering.

 

xxxx

 

Rolfrik cursed vehemently. Had not enough misfortune befallen them already? Argis was down, again. It seemed there was no end to the man's ill luck.

"Do we have another healing potion?". Lars asked the veteran.

Rolfrik shook his head. "No. We only had three." Lars and Fjol had drunk the other two.

Judging by the rasp in Argis' breath, the man's lung might have sustained injury. He would not be going anywhere.

"Tie the horses together and put two poles between, shoulders and rear. We'll take our blankets and make a stretcher," Rolfrik ordered. "I will sort through our things; we will leave behind everything that can be spared. We set out immediately." There was a short bustle of activity and then, after treating Argis' wounds, Lars and Rolfrik heaved the injured Nord upon their makeshift stretcher between the two horses. The animals looked pretty unhappy with their new burden.

Rolfrik kept their little group walking through the day, not allowing them any rest until evening. By them Argis was alternately shivering and sweating. When Rolfrik checked on him, his skin was hot to the touch and it felt clammy.

"This ain't right."

Rolfrik knew that the sabrecat's claws had been filthy, but for an infection to set in so quickly? True, Argis' body was weakened, but his state was beyond normal.

The veteran boiled some water to wash the wounds once again. When he unwrapped the bandages, one gash in particular looked inflamed. It was an angry red and light pressure caused the wound to weep pus and a milky coloured liquid. Rolfrik leaned closer, and in the last rays of the setting he saw something whitish distorting the wound.

"Holy Talos!" Rolfrik's eyes grew wide. With the help of his pocketknife he pulled a three inch long claw from Argis' chest. It was a small mercy that Argis was no longer conscious by then. Time was running out. Staring at the find, the soldier pocketed the claw, turning to Lars and Thurek, who sat on the ground slumped with exhaustion. "We go on."

 

xxxx

 

At noon of the second day the city of Markarth came into view. Instead of a parade, their entry resembled a funeral procession. In a way, it was.

A traumatized, half-blind warrior whose recuperation was not a thing of certainty was not fit to be the Jarl's bodyguard. Igmund chose Faleen as his housecarl, but plagued by his conscience the Jarl took pity on Argis and appointed him húskarl – to Vlindrel Hall.

A meaningless title, as empty as the gaping hole in Argis' chest, where his heart had been.


	53. HT

'Housecarl to Vlindrel Hall, as if a house needed protection,' Argis thought bitterly as he stared up at the stone ceiling of the healer's houses located in a side wing of the Temple of Dibella. The Jarl had visited him personally, probably to alleviate his conscience. After all, it had been the Jarl's scouts and their faulty reports that were responsible for the clusterfuck his mission had become. If Argis ever found out the men's names, he would tear those bloody bastards limb from limb.

Others had come by to offer their sympathies and condolences. Argis wished they would shut the fuck up and leave him be. The last thing he wanted was to be repeatedly reminded of what he had lost.

He had awoken two days ago and though he had been drugged against the pain Argis had nonetheless noticed that something was wrong. At first he could not pinpoint it. Blinking his eyes, it slowly dawned on him that he could not see out of his left eye. Argis tried to fight the rising panic, closing his eyes again. When he had heard the soft whisper of a priest's moccasins on the Temple's stone tiles, he spoke up for the first time.

"There's something wrong with my eye," he rasped out, hoping against hope that the healers had overlooked his injury or maybe postponed its treatment for reasons unknown.

The priestess however did not respond at first, twiddling her skirts instead, but the lack of a reply was an answer in itself. Argis' breath stuttered and he clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. Damn it, he would not lose his composure like a milk-drinking recruit.

"I'm sorry… ," the woman began.

"Leave me," Argis interrupted her brusquely.

She lingered for a moment longer, before finally turning to leave, her soft footsteps dwindling as she retreated. Argis tossed an arm across his face and breathed hard through the threatening tears. He was a warrior who lived with the risk of being injured every day. He would _not_ grieve the loss of an eye, for compared to what he had lost, his maiming was insignificant. Hell, he would throw his right arm into the count to get Hákan back.

As it was, Argis would get neither his lover back, nor his eyesight. The healers had worked hard to purge the infection from his body and to restore his health. Argis did not know it, but he had come close to dying and the healer's entire focus had been on keeping him alive.

Four days after he woke up and a week since he was brought to the Temple, Argis was proclaimed strong enough to leave the infirmary. He stepped out of the cool, dusky interior of the Temple, shielding his face against the blinding sunlight. It was a beautiful day; the sun was shining brightly from a cloudless sky and the warm air was stirred by a light breeze. Strange, how life went on, that the world continued, oblivious to the passing of those living upon her. Somehow, Argis had expected things to have changed, for the skies to be darkened with heavy clouds and thunder, to match his own sorrow. As he stood on the threshold it slowly downed on him that he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

So he slowly made his way back to his home, taking narrow alleyways that were seldom traversed and avoiding the busier areas and streets of the city. Markarth's stairs took a toll on Argis' weakened body and he had to pause frequently in order to catch his breath and to wait for the stabbing pain in his chest to diminish to a dull ache.

The first time Argis had been grievously wounded by a javelin the priests had merely patched him up and ensured his survival. He had been nobody back then. Now, at the Jarl's behest they had spared no efforts to make certain that he would carry no lingering damage, except for what was irreversible.

Argis should be grateful. He wasn't, wishing they had left him to die.

At last he halted in front of the solid, oaken doors of his hone, but he could not quite bring himself to go inside. Argis sunk down on the stone bench that stood in front of the house, supporting his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling uselessly between his thighs and his gaze unfocused and vacant.

A muffled thump next to him made Argis look up. A grey tabby stood before him, looking up expectantly. It was Prowl, Hákan's cat, which meowed at Argis until he bent down and picked her up, placing the cat in his lap, from where she immediately jumped up to bump her head against his jaw. Argis sat there, stroking the cat's soft fur mechanically and listening to her happy purrs, until when next he looked up the sun had wandered a good deal across the sky. With a sigh he sat Prowl down; she lived in the streets, but she had a box and a food bowl they kept full.

Argis winced. There was no 'them', not anymore.

With something akin to dread he unlocked the front door, opening it wide to allow some light into the house's dim interior. Markarth's houses were usually made entirely of stone and few had even shuttered windows. As a consequence it was dark inside, but on the upside the interior was pleasantly cool in summer and warm in winter when the thick walls kept the warmth in. If people did not want to sit in the darkness or waste candles they simply left the doors ajar, as Argis did now.

He entered the tiny kitchen with its cold hearth, walked through what passed for a living room until he came to a stop in front of the alcove with its double bed. The sheets would still smell of Hákan and of sex and Argis wanted nothing more than to fall into the bed, although if he allowed himself to, he might not find the strength to get up once more. Instead he turned away, towards the nightstand where a small rectangular piece of polished metal served as a looking glass. Argis picked it up and with a thudding heart he looked at his reflection. Much to his surprise his left eye was not gone, but milky in colour though very much still there. He had not dared to touch his face and find out before.

His left cheek bore two long, straight cuts which were scabbed over, the skin tight around them. One started directly below his now useless eye and a third, much smaller one cut across his lips, close to the corner of his mouth. It wasn't that bad. Argis had been holding his breath which he now let out shakily, putting the looking glass back and looking around.

Every corner of his home, every nook and piece of furniture awoke memories. On a worktable in front of the fireplace a pair of unfinished vambraces lay. Argis had been making these for Hákan, who somehow always managed to wreck his. He picked them up, running his fingers over the supple leather. They had spent many an evening here, mending their armour and talking, or just working together in companionable silence. Argis tossed his piece of work back down on the table. When they landed with a clatter, he thought he could hear and feel his heart break.

Here, where Hákan's presence was practically tangible, Argis knew he would find no peace. Before the day was out he had sold his home and moved what little furniture and personal effects he had decided to keep to Vlindrel Hall. He invested all his savings and bought a part of Vlindrel Hall from Raerek who handed Argis over the keys.

Vlindrell Hall was huge - Argis' previous house would have fit into the kitchen alone - and empty. Argis' footsteps echoed loudly through the empty manor and the darkness that lingered in the corners and was too thick for the stuttering flame of his candle to chase away seemed foreboding. The emptiness made Argis weary and he was glad to lie down on his new bed and to slip under some furs. He had claimed a room on the right hand side as his own. The sputtering candle flame kept Argis company, until close to midnight it guttered out.

Tired as he was, Argis had no difficulties falling asleep. It was the dreams that tormented him which made him choose wakefulness over sleep on the nights that followed. Argis did not know which ones were worse, those in which he repeatedly watched Hákan being buried under a cascade of stone, unable to help, or those in which his lover was still alive, laughing heartfelt and assuring Argis that he was alright. From the first he awoke screaming, but the second seemed so real, they threatened to rob him of his sanity. Argis started to drink to escape his dreams and get a nights rest.

He continued out of habit and because passing out drunk was better than listening to the ugly thoughts in his head. Rolfrik had banned him from the training grounds until he had regained his strength, so there was nothing for Argis to do, nothing to keep him busy. Lars had visited frequently and Argis was torn between wanting to be alone and being glad there was somebody to distract him from the swamp of depression he was in danger of drowning in.

His friend told him that a troop of soldiers had been sent out to collect the bodies of their eight fallen comrades – or what remained of them. They had not found Hákan's body, even though the boulders had shifted, the tower collapsing further unto itself, allowing the men to search inside. The funeral rites had been held while Argis was unconscious in the Temple of Dibella. Every soldier Argis had taken with him had been a close friend. Now he visited their graves in the Hall of the Dead, though Argis felt too drained and too tired to mourn them properly, leaving only the customary offerings on the marble altar. The dead did not need worldly possessions. They were at peace.

One other thing was giving Argis trouble. Blind on one eye he was losing his depth perception. It was not something that happened at once, but a gradual process and all the more bothersome for it. When after two weeks Argis was allowed back into the training ring, it was only to find out that he, who had been Markarth's best fighter, could no longer could his own against even an average swordsman. His body knew all the moves and he had no difficulties to read his opponent's eyes; their attacks he could anticipate with ease. However, the real problem was that once he got into close combat, he no longer could gauge distances. Between twenty and two feet Argis could see little to no difference.

To add insult to injury his field of vision was reduced, making it easy to outmanoeuvre him by striking at his blind side. The fact that after just a few minutes of fighting Argis was badly winded did not help either.

 

xxxx

 

For the umpteenth time Argis picked up his training sword after his training partner had managed to knock it out of his hand. Argis had been sure this time he would be able to block the attack, but he had misjudged the distance once again and missed his opponent who took his chance to disarm him. The pain in his chest had started again, but Argis was stubbornly ignoring it.

"Again!" he barked at the man opposite him.

Lars watched the confrontation with apprehension. Argis had lost every bout so far. Two months and the housecarl showed no indication of getting better. One thing had to be said about Argis: he was stubborn. He never complained, just picked his sword up and had another go; the only outward sign of his frustration was that his face bore all the cheerfulness of a thunderstorm. He sounded perfectly calm however as he took his place in the ring once more. The two fighters circled each other carefully, Argis shaking his head like an angry bull from time to time, as if that would clear his vision and help him see better. Much like before, his training partner went for Argis' blind side. Something changed in Argis posture, a barely noticeable difference betrayed by the glint in his eye. _Shit._ Before he knew what exactly happened, Lars was up and sprinting towards the combatants.

Argis felt something snap inside him when he saw the blade striking at his vulnerable side once more. He was fed up with his injury, with his incapability to defend himself, to fight. The one thing he had actually excelled at and now it had been taken from him. He felt like a bumbling recruit again.

And he was angry. With the Forsworn who had killed his lover. With Hákan, who had gotten himself blown up. With himself and his weakness, his failures. And with all those spectators who looked at him with pity, whose fingers he saw pointing at him when they thought he was not looking and their whispers, snatches of which carried to him on the wind.

For once not taking the defensive stance, Argis went all out, allowing the battle madness to take over. He ran straight at his opponent, surprise and his greater weight doing the job, breaking through the other man's guard. He got a two handed grip on his sword and swung it, putting all his strength into the blow. That might have just been the last of the soldier, if Lars had not tackled Argis, slapping his arm away and fouling the strike. Argis' blade soared harmlessly past the stunned man.

"Damn it, Argis! Ya tryin' to kill him?" Lars cried, tightening his grip on Argis' armour and giving the man a good shake. Argis glowered down on him and for a moment Lars thought that his friend might turn on him, but then Argis seemed to deflate, dropping his sword and running a hand over his face.

"Shit!" the big Nord cursed and a kick sent his blade sailing through the air.

Lars could not begin to imagine the frustration Argis must be feeling, he had always just been a simple soldier. Nonetheless he tried to encourage the warrior.

"Remember the time when Rolf broke his arm? He couldn't draw his bow for a year. And now he's one of our best archers. You will get better again in time."

"How am I supposed to get better if I can't see?" Argis replied.

Lars had never heard his friend sound so defeated and he did not know the answer to Argis' question, so instead he asked one of his own. "Are you alright?

"Do I fucking look like I'm alright?" Argis spat back. He felt sorry for snapping at his friend as soon as the words left his mouth.

"You look like hell," Lars answered silently, his tone sincere. He was concerned for his friend. It had been two months and Argis' iron self control had not slipped once, not until today when Lars was quite sure he had been about to bash his training partner's brains in. That was Argis. Lars was pretty sure it was not healthy, bottling up your feelings like that. Hákan had known how to deal with it, one word from him, one small gesture and he could make anyone smile. He had been good with people like that, something that Lars was not.

"Are you getting any rest?"

The wry twitch of Argis' lips told Lars he had hit close to home.

Lars was at wit's end. He could not help the man with his grief or his injury, but Argis did not have to face it all on his own. When Lars put a hand on his friends' shoulder, the big warrior flinched away from his touch.

Sympathy would get Lars nowhere, he knew his friend well enough.

"Pick up yar sorry arse and move on." It was true and well meant, although somewhat coarse.

"That's what I've been trying to do."

They stood there in uncomfortable silence until Argis went back to gather his sword from where he had kicked it.

"Again."

 

xxxx

 

Jarl Igmund watched Markarth's prized warrior struggle hard not to waste away. Maybe what the man needed was a distraction, something to occupy him; a task. Igmund had Argis summoned before him.

The Nord warrior looked terrible, face haggard, eyes bloodshot with circles under his eyes so dark it looked like he had two black eyes. His armour was immaculate, however and his salute brisk.

"Ah, Argis I am glad to see you have recovered from your injuries. I was sorry to hear of your loss."

"Thank you, my Jarl," Argis spoke to his sovereign. He did not glance in Faleen's direction even once, treating the Jarl's housecarl as if she was air. She was a thorn in his side and he decided to deal with her as he did all pain: with stoic indifference. The man to Igmund's left Argis could not remember seeing before. Then again, he had paid little heed to the nobles and their court, caught up as he had been in his training.

Jarl Igmund decided not to comment on Arigs' cool tone. Instead he announced the reason why he had called for the man.

"I have decided it is time for you to do what you were trained to. I name you housecarl to Bjorn of Solitude, Thane of Markarth."

Bjorn was Nord by birth, though Imperial by choice; he wholeheartedly considered himself to be a citizen of the civilized and cosmopolitan Empire. Being the second son of a noble family from Solitude he had few obligations and too much time on his hands and therefore he grew bored, deciding to take up adventuring as a pastime. A dalliance with the wrong nobleman's daughter had him leaving the city of his birth, but luck, a political coup and an outrageous amount of money got him the position of Thane of Markarth.

He was of middle height, had green eyes, brown hair that he kept slicked back and a small patch of beard on his chin. 'Like a goat' Argis' mind supplied. Apparently the women liked it if Bjorn's reputation was to be believed. Why, Argis could not fathom, but then he had little experience with the fair sex. Worst of all, his new Thane smelled like a lavender field, which had Argis sneezing violently. All in all, Argis was not impressed with his new charge. Evidently the feeling was mutual.

Nonetheless there was a spring in the Thane's step as he approached Argis, bowing his head slightly in greeting. "Good day to you, sirrah. I was told you were to be my manservant?"

Argis' jaw nearly hit the ground. That man was either ignorant or insolent beyond measure. "I'm nobody's _servant_ ," the warrior ground out.

Bjorn's face fell somewhat, his smile becoming strained, realizing he had just made a big mistake.

"Err...It seems we got off on the wrong foot. Let me make amends and introduce myself. I am Bjorn, son of Erikur, from bright and beautiful Solitude, home to bards, poets and fair maidens." That said he turned his attention back to his housecarl, who suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"I'm Argis."

"Oh my, I see your eloquence knows no bounds," Bjorn joked lightly, trying to break the ice. Win Argis over with humour. "I have attended the Bards College, of course," he continued, completely oblivious that his attempts at small talk fell on deaf ears.

"I guess one has a lot of time if you don't have to work," Argis muttered darkly.

"Well, yes." Bjorn's face lit up. Maybe they would get along alright if they found some common ground. "And I wouldn't want to dirty my hands with common labour." Being a warrior was better than being a peasant, right? What had the Jarl said? Housecarl. The man must be proud to be swinging a sword instead of a shovel.

Argis did not reply this time.

 oooo

It went from bad to worse. The Jarl sent Bjorn on many errands and as his housecarl, it was Argis' duty to accompany his Thane. The first time they set out Bjorn looked worriedly at the man at his side. The Nord looked to be dead on his feet. On the night before the planned attack on a robber's hideout Argis' Thane spoke up.

"Why don't you take some rest?"

Like he was an invalid. A cripple, not good enough to do his duty. He was good enough to cook, though, to listen to his Thane talk and to carry a shitload of junk, like he was some bloody pack-mule. Argis could feel the other soldiers casting covert glances his way. But he was not good enough to fight. Thus, Argis was banned from participating in the battle, tending to the camp instead. It was his fault, too. Bjorn had seen him in the training ring and commented on it. _How did one fight without one eye? Wasn't it terribly cumbersome? Had_ _the Jarl not said Argis was Markarth's most skilled warrior? He wasn't that good._

What hurt most was that it was true. When Bjorn opened his mouth once more, no doubt to spew another disparaging remark, Argis had snapped. "I was merely thinking… ," Bjorn began.

Argis did not let him finish. "Don't think. It doesn't suit you."

Bjorn stood there, dumbfounded. _Nords_. Couldn't they behave like civilized people? Here, everything was so different from Solitude, how was he to know what to do or say?" Not that Bjorn ever bothered to find out.

Argis was sure his enforced 'resting' was retribution for that incident.

 oooo

After another successful mission they returned to Markarth in stony silence. All this business about being a Thane was rather stressful and Bjorn decided to find himself some pretty lass to help him relax. As he was wont to do.

Argis' room had no door and Argis did not want to listen to the man fuck his way through the town's sluts every night. As if sleeping wasn't difficult enough. He hit the bottle hard.

In the morning Argis' hangover put him in a foul mood. Bjorn on the other hand was obnoxiously cheerful, chattering ceaselessly. He suddenly noticed his housecarl's grumpy manner.

"What is it, Argis? Why so grumpy this morning?"

Argis looked up. He had fallen asleep shortly before dawn and gotten up only a couple of hours later. Politeness was quite beyond him at that point. "You could take your wenching somewhere else."

"Excuse me?" Bjorn's voice rose in indignation. How _rude_.

"I live here. And I'm trying to get some sleep," Argis replied.

"Well, you could live somewhere else," Bjorn threw back.

"Fuck, no." Argis liked Vlindrel Hall just fine. Especially now that Bjorn had spent a fortune on its furnishings. The man had good taste in home decorations; Argis had to give him that. It was his only positive quality that Argis could think of straightaway.

 

xxxx

 

Jarl Igmund was in danger of ripping out the last of his hair. Thane Bjorn had petitioned him this morning to have his housecarl move out of his manor. Trouble was, it was Argis' house, too. And removing ones housecarl entirely went against the purpose of having one in first place. What a headache. Both men stood before the throne, Argis cross-armed and silent, his Thane arguing his point and flailing his arms around ridiculously.

The only thing Argis said when asked why he was not willing to move out was "It's my house, too."

Jarl Igmund tried to find some middle ground. Turning to Argis he spoke "You had a home. Raerek tells me it is still available, maybe you could consider it?"

"No." The answer was curt and final.

Arguing the matter would not change the warrior's mind. Whatever had possessed the Jarl to assign Argis to Bjorn, Igmund was already regretting his decision. The men had nothing in common, Argis was as Nord as one could be; Bjorn on the other hand was all but Imperial with little regard for his homeland's values and traditions. It was a disaster about to happen.   Igmund would have kicked his own ass, were it anatomically possible. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for the protests he would have to put up with when he announced his decision.

 

xxxx

 

Bjorn was _not_ sulking. Behaviour like that was beneath him. He was however, in a very bad mood and terribly disappointed with his Jarl, who had taken Argis' side. The housecarl had paid for the house – much less than Bjorn, mind you - but Igmund had declared nonetheless that he had the right to live in Vlindrel Hall until he renounced it willingly. Bjorn could not understand how the man could arrive at such a decision. Probably because the Jarl's judgement was impaired by all that honour nonsense. In _Solitude_ some money would have changed hands and Bjorn would have gotten what he wanted. Here, in Markarth the Jarl only glowered down at the Thane, asking him in a low, dangerous voice if he thought the Jarl could be bought off.

And Argis. The man was a mystery. Bjorn had never encountered a more insubordinate and foul tempered servant. He had been nothing, but nice to the warrior. He let him rest anytime, because it was so very obvious how hard he was struggling. He had even proposed for Argis to stay at home and take care of a few minor tasks, to take it easy and relax. Did he get any gratitude? NO! . Bjorn tried to engross Argis in conversation; he had even offered to buy the man a house when it became clear he was arguing a lost cause! Argis had absolutely no manners, he drank, cursed and lived by that effing Nord code that Bjorn could not even begin to understand.

Bjorn sighed. He should not frown, it would give him wrinkles. Tonight there was a party, one the Silver-Bloods were hosting. Bjorn could not be absent from an event of such political and social importance. Fêtes such as this one were his favourite pastime. They offered him the possibility to socialize and engage in polite conversation with cultured and educated men and ladies. People on whom his charm and wit did not roll off like water off a duck's back. Bjorn was delighted by the Silver-Blood manor, the tasteful decorations and little delicacies that were served on polished silver trays. After a while of mingling the guests all seated themselves at the main table.

Bjorn's housecat took up position behind him, silent and brooding. Bjorn would not let the man's bad mood spoil the evening for him. These events were meant to be _fun_.

There was food and wine and Bjorn might have imbibed somewhat too much in the latter. How could he not, if there were servants at every corner waiting to refill his glass once it was empty? Proper servants. The alcohol loosened his tongue and Bjorn soon found himself in his element, entertaining a group of admirers. He kept telling jokes and stories and he even forgot how annoyed he was with Argis. From time to time he even tried to get his housecarl to talk, asking him questions. It became somewhat of a game to Bjorn, trying to get the man to react somehow.

Argis usually answered those with "Yes, Thane," or "No Thane." He did not care for the conversations of a pack of half-drunk sycophants who believed themselves to be better than everybody else.

Bjorn was already deep in his cups. Men couldn't hold his liquor to get this drunk from sweet wines, Argis thought when one thing made him listen up.

"Argis, you should grab yourself some pretty lass. It might help you relax, wipe that morose look from your face, maybe even replace it with a smile? Seriously, if you are this dour, you will end up all alone. An empty bed is a cold one."

In the following silence that settled over the table the sound of Argis crushing his mug was clearly audible. One edge bit into his hand and his blood started to flow and drip off his fingers, the scarlet shocking against the bright white of the tablecloth.

He did not feel the pain. Above the roaring in his ears Argis could only think that if Bjorn had the bad taste to make fun of his deceased lover, he could have at least done it when Argis was not present. He turned away and without asking for permission, he left the party. If there was an assassin lurking amongst the guests, waiting to stab his Thane with a salad fork or strangle him with a doily, he was welcome to do so.

The cold night air that hit him was a welcome change from the warm, stuffy interior. It helped him cool down somewhat as he slowly made his way back to Vlindrel Hall where he roughly patched up his wounded hand. His Thane had done nothing but disrespect him and his position and now he had the gall to humiliate him. He was at best treated like a liability, a burden weighing Bjorn down, an incapable milk-drinker who could not pull his own weight. The Thane talked down to Argis with all his fancy words and he had the audacity to try to throw a housecarl from the house! Argis knew then, that the rift between his Thane and himself could not be mended. Everything else he was willing to suffer, but that last remark had been the final straw. He could not forgive it.

Inside, Bjorn realised he had just made a mistake. Turning to the lady next to him, he put on his most charming smile. "What have I put my foot in, dear, would you explain to me?"

She was not swayed by his smile, as she would have been a moment ago. "That was the most tactless thing I have heard anybody say to his housecarl...ever! His lover was killed recently, in the Proving.

"Oh my, I did not know." Bjorn's regret was sincere.   "When did it happen?"

"Not four months ago. And how could you not know? The man is your húskarl and you did not even bother to find out?! You, sirrah, are despicable."

Bjorn knew he had overstayed his welcome. He too left the party, in far worse spirits than he had arrived in.

 

xxxx

 

They did not talk to each other again apart from when it absolutely could not be avoided. Bjorn had tried apologizing half a dozen times, all of which Argis ignored. Weeks passed and Argis kept up his training, trying to compensate for the loss of one eye by gaining experience. He was pleasantly surprised when found out that, unlike his swordsmanship, his archery skills had not suffered for the lack of an eye. Argis had never been much of an archer, but he valued those who were. For the first time in six months Argis approached Rolfrik. He had felt betrayed by his him, but that was one friendship Argis was not willing to give up. Rolfrik was surprised, but happy to help Argis improve his shooting skills.

Bjorn went back to his soirees and wenches. It still annoyed Argis no end that at night he had to listen to the wet slaps of flesh and the moaning. Bjorn could at least close the bloody door. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently it was. Well, two could play at this game. Argis calmly strapped on his armour, took up his shield and sword and with his most fierce was cry he stormed his Thane's bedroom.

The girl saw him first, screamed and scrambled up and away. She cast her lover an incredulous look, before collecting her clothes, dressing herself in record time and running – still barefoot – for the front door.

"Eiwen, come back!" Bjorn called after her, but Bjorn's slut only threw a precious vase at him, before inching carefully past Argis and making her escape.

Recovering from his shock, Bjorn turned a vivid scarlet. "What did you think you were doing!?" he demanded to know.

"Sorry, Thane. You screamed so loudly I thought you were being attacked," Argis replied calmly.

 oooo

The tale of Argis the very vigilant housecarl spread like wildfire and Bjorn's nightly exploits ended rather abruptly. Or maybe he ran out of women. Lars, Rolfrik and the other soldiers laughed their arses off. Argis had few reasons for merriment. The Jarl wanted his Thane to deal with two Giants who had been killing livestock and its owners. Bjorn probably thought he could take them on singlehandedly.

Argis knew better. "Have you ever fought a Giant?" He had. Just once and damn, that had been one hairy battle.

"I do not think a pair of simple minded brutes will give me much trouble," Bjorn remarked offhandedly. He inwardly complimented himself on the double meaning.

"There is a reason they're called _Giants_. They're huge, tough and darn hard to kill."

His Thane did not heed Argis' warning and his suggestion to bring with them as many archers as they could to bring the Giants down from a safe distance. Bjorn thought there was no glory in killing something from afar. Glory he had no intention to share with Argis, who was assigned to watch the camp once again.

"Argis, you stay here. We wouldn't want you to strain your abilities. Under no circumstances I want you to interfere with my kills," the Thane ordered.

"Who the hell does he think he is?" A woman's voice said, once Bjorn was out of earshot.

"Careful, Sigrid. The man's still a Thane," Rolfrik reprimanded her.

"I don't care if he flails around with his pig-sticker or his fancy words. He ain't got no right to treat Argis like that."

 oooo

The Giants were located a quarter day's march from their camp. When they set out, Bjorn's shoulders were tense; he did not look back. Rolfrik did. In the distance he saw a small figure trailing them.

Argis packed a small backpack, took his bow and set out after the main group. He'd be damned if he left his men to the command of his Thane. The soldiers were able to surprise the Giants, but the fight turned sour quite fast. The Giants were armed with huge, primitive but very effective clubs. Their reach was far greater than that of the humans and soon soldiers were forced to retreat, forming a half-circle around their enemies, but unable to approach. Rolfrik was the only archer, trying to get the Giant's attention by riddling them with arrows. It turned out to be a slow, but effective method. Maddened with pain the Giants soon started attacking at random. Behind them the soldiers swooped in to cut at their legs and bring them down.

Argis watched the battle avidly. His breath stocked when he saw one of the Giants dropping its club, which killed the unlucky soldier that had stood beneath it, and grab another man. It was Lars. The powerful, sinewy arms of the Giant could tear apart a grown man easily. Without thinking Argis knocked an arrow and loosed it. It hit the Giant close to the elbow and it roared in agony, but thankfully it dropped its catch. Lars scrambled beyond its reach and back into the safety of the circle of soldiers. While the soldiers killed the first, now unarmed Giant, a single man attacked the second one.

It was folly. Argis had little doubt who the lone figure was and he saw the exact moment when his Thane made not his first, but certainly his last mistake.

Lars was shouting something, waving his arms like mad.

Argis knocked another arrow; Rolfrik must have run out of his. A good shot might distract the Giant enough for Bjorn to get away. Bjorn had been darting around the creature, but he slipped – and fell. The Giant lifted its club and Argis drew his bow. He never took the shot.

 

xxxx

 

Jarl Igmund sighed. The soldier's reports were all the same, then again they were Argis' men and loyal. They would protect their leader at all costs. The short story was that Argis had been ordered not to interfere with his Thane's fight. Whether a housecarl's primary duty was to protect his Thane or to follow his orders was debatable. There had not been enough left of Thane Bjorn to bring back to Markarth and the Hall of the Dead. The soldiers had precious little good to say about the man, some going even as far as to spit on the floor.

"Do you have something to say to defend yourself?" Jarl asked the last question Argis himself.

"No, my Jarl." Argis would not compromise his men and their reports. Neither would he lie and pretend they were true.

With so much evidence in favour of Argis, Jarl Igmund had no choice but to clear Argis' name of all blame and dishonour.

 

xxxx

 

His Thane's death had been somewhat of a wakeup call for Argis. The seasons had turned from summer to spring and he had allowed himself to wallow in misery for too long.

It was only thanks to his friends that Argis became known as a man of terrible ill luck, instead of a disgrace to the title of húskarl. His men did not blame him. In his heart though, Argis knew that he had killed his Thane, as sure as if he had driven a blade through the man's chest himself. It troubled him and yet he could not find it in himself to feel any remorse. His life pretty soon returned to its former routine. Except that he stayed off the ale. Funny that a glass of warm honeyed milk would help him sleep much better. It was a secret he never intended for anyone to find out.

One day as he sparred with Lars, Argis felt his spirit lift. He saw his chance soon after, disarming Lars when he let down his guard. It was the first fight Argis had won in a year. He stared at the sword in the floor, not believing that it was not his. And then he began to laugh.

The next round was against Rolfrik. Argis won handily, tricking his friend into believing that his left side was open. Maybe he finally found out how to judge distances or maybe it was the boast to his confidence, but Argis' shield became once more the insuperable barrier he was known and named for.

Rolfrik approached Argis the next day, holding something in his hand. It was a three inch ling claw, blunted, polished and set in silver on a leather cord. Rolfrik handed the present over, his only words being "It's good to have you back."

"It's good I have friends like you," Argis replied sincerely. "How about I buy you an ale?"

Rolfrik chuckled and threw his arm across Argis' shoulders. He could feel whatever differences there had been between them mending. "How can I turn down such an offer?"

Together, the two friends made their way towards the Shambling Shed, a pub in the soldier's quarters.

It was not happiness, nor content, but for the first time since the fateful attack on the Forsworn, Argis felt at peace.


	54. HT

Argis was not one to wallow in the past, it was the past for a reason and that was where he intended to keep it. Today seemed different somehow. His visit to the Jarl early in the morning had brought up memories, some fond, others sad and all of them ones he had believed he had come to terms with a long time ago.

Standing before a tall looking glass Argis carefully studied his reflection. It was a strange thing, to be able to see one's own face. His appearance had not changed much in those four years. His left, marred side was a stark contrast to his right, undamaged one. The Nord of the Reach hated to admit it, but somewhere along the thousand years of war with the Forsworn, their bloodlines had mixed. Lots of people bore features of the Reachmen that were evident to all those who looked closely. With Argis it was his eyes. His right one was a bright, intense amber in colour. It looked back at him, guardedly, from above his tattooed cheek. His tattoo. Hákan had talked Argis into getting the marking, a sign of his prowess for everybody to see. There had been times when the deep red patterns had mocked him, but overall he was fond of it. It was a part of him now.

Turning away, Argis mustered his house. Vlindrel Hall had not changed, either. Nobody had come to claim the abundant furniture and decorations and so Argis was left living in a splendid manor.

Not that he had sat back, put his feet up and enjoyed it. After Bjorn's death Argis had taken on any and every mission there was. For a year he laboured close to breaking down, mentally and physically worn out beyond words. But the hard work had felt cleansing and after a while he let off, allowing himself to enjoy the occasional break, though he remained a driving force behind the campaigns against the Forsworn in the never ending struggle for the Reach.

He had renounced leadership however, leaving it to Brigge, a young and very talented commander. They argued sometimes and Argis, who was the more experienced warrior, had to pull ranks now and then, but more often than not they got along very well, forming a strong team. Brigge got his orders from the Jarl and his main duty was to tend to the army and to take care of the logistics; in other words he organized and coordinated everything.

Argis was left to oversee the training of the recruits, the preparations of his soldiers and he usually did the actual field work. He was content.

Argis had had ambitions, once. He no longer did.

Dreams had brought him little joy and too much sorrow when they were shattered.

 oooo

Argis looked up when the first rays of sunlight began to stream in through the glass panels in the hall and dining room, casting jittering patters on the plush carpets. Argis had discovered many things about his house over the years. The constant drafts that had made the manor a chilly and uninviting place had stopped when Argis had pulled a lever out of curiosity. As it turned out there were a couple of ventilation grilles that could be opened or closed; a useful mechanism in a place that had only one door and no windows.

Another time, after a very powerful storm Argis saw that there was light shining through the ceiling. Vlindrel Hall was hewn into the mountainside. Its roof was on a rocky outcrop and it was flat and covered in earth and weeds. There, under a thick layer of dirt Argis discovered glass plates. Clear glass of a quality and craftsmanship that was not known to humanity. It was probably a relic of the Dwemer who had built Markarth and had mysteriously disappeared from the surface of Nirn many centuries ago. Argis had gone to great lengths to clean the glass and remove the soil. The flat space that few would call a 'rooftop' he converted into a small herbal garden.

After so much time, Vlindrel Hall had finally become home.

And now a stranger was to come and live here. 'Not just any stranger', Argis thought. His Thane. His _second_ Thane. It was an almost unheard of incident as a housecarl lived and died with the one he was sworn to protect with his own life. It was the only honourable thing to do, the only way for húskarla to ascend to Sovngarde and the Hall of Valor: defend their charges or die trying. They were more than mere warriors; a glorious death on the field of battle was not enough to strive for.

Argis had left his first Thane, Bjorn of Solitude, to die. He had been ordered by the very man not to aid him in his fighting and Argis had abided by these orders. Not out of respect for the man, but out of spite. It made all the difference in the Nord's mind.

The warriors who had accompanied him and most of the other soldiers, some of who were under Argis' command, did not hold him responsible; they understood what it meant to follow orders. Although the Jarl had cleared Argis' name there were others who would not talk to him, shopkeepers that would not sell him their wares and a couple of establishments where he would be a most undesired guest. Argis was not troubled by these circumstances, there were enough who welcomed him and the others had every right not to want to have him around. Over time he had grown indifferent to the various opinions and rumours that went with his name.

Argis' reputation was that of a warrior unmatched in skill and determination, dedicated to his Jarl and the war, and of a severe and unforgiving personality. He was believed to be aloof and of a remorseless nature that bordered on grim, violent though not outright cruel; his path was not one many dared to cross.

Therefore Argis could truly not tell why the Jarl still put his trust in him. He was not worthy of this _fourth_ chance he had been given. He avowed then and there that he would make his Jarl and his Thane proud if it was the last thing he did, as it should be.

He would start by making himself and his home presentable. After weeks of scouting and camping out in the wilds he, his armour and weapons needed some grooming. Argis had a thorough bath and carefully trimmed the beard around his mouth, as he had shaved his cheeks this morning already, because the tufts of hair between his scars looked funny.

Argis cleaned and polished his armour, oiled the leather parts and sharpened his weapons. He carried his dirty clothes – a rather large sack – to the washerwomen for them to deal with it. After all, he had his hands full cleaning Vlindrel Hall, removing the layer of dust that had settled in his absence, beating the carpets and restocking the pantry and ice cellar with victuals. He noted that the snow level was low, he would have to refill the chamber once winter arrived.

He worked quickly and efficiently, as he did everything else.

Midday came and Argis found he had nothing more to do but wait for the man who might decide the further course of his life. The thought made the Nord uneasy. Had he worried as much when he had been younger?

Instead of sitting around and driving himself to distraction Argis decided to pay the Shambling Shed a visit. The tavern was run by Halof, a Great War veteran and it had quickly become a popular establishment, one of the few not in the hands of the Silver-Blood family. The soldiers had their own mess hall, but the food there was so bland and of a seedy origin that many preferred to eat at the Shambling Shed instead. The men put their coin together and bought the groceries themselves and Halof prepared and cooked them, which allowed for cheap, tasty meals.

Argis pushed open the rickety door that hung askew once more, probably due to being unhinged during a brawl. Or maybe Halof had thrown out a drunken troublemaker without bothering to open it first. The landlord greeted Argis with a nod, beckoning for him to take a seat at the counter. The tavern was still empty, but it would fill up soon when the first of the men had their break. Argis followed the invitation and he lowered himself upon a stool, leaning his elbows on the counter. "Give me the strongest drink you've got," he said as a way of greeting.

Halof lifted his brows. Usually he did not sell alcoholic beverages during duty hours, but Argis was not officially a member of the army or the guard. And he looked like he needed it.

The veteran went into the back room and dug around until he found what he was looking for: a bottle of Colovian Brandy that he filled a tankard with. In a smooth motion that spoke of years of practice he slid the tankard across the polished counter without spilling any of the liquid inside. Argis downed the brandy in a few gulps, grimacing slightly at the burn in his throat, but he wordlessly lifted his mug for a refill. Halof complied, waiting patiently and watching his only patron with mild curiosity while and Argis nursed his second drink, quite obviously fortifying himself for something big.

"You look like you just got trampled by a hoarker," the veteran stated wryly. "Say, what's the matter?" By now he knew all that troubled his patrons. Halof had listened to so many confessions, he honestly considered charging his customers double: for the drink and the advice that went with it.

"I'm doomed," the blond Nord sighed heavily and indeed he looked to be at a loss, an expression the like of which Halof had not seen on him in...years. And that was not territory he dared to venture in, not unless he wanted to contribute an entire keg to the conversation. The landlord remained silent and let Argis work through things in his own pace.

But the housecarl obviously did not want to talk about whatever it was that had happened, changing the topic instead. "What's the word around town? Anything interesting going on while I was away?"

"Sven broke his hand in training, Dom's wife threw him out on the street again for fornicating and Brigge's in a mood because of fredas," Halof said. "But you already know that," he discarded the last piece of gossip. He was only warming himself up for the good part "And there's going to be a new Thane," the veteran added in a staged voice.

That certainly got Argis' attention who immediately asked "Who's it?" He was hard to read at the best of times, but Halof thought he could detect a tightness in the warrior's voice.

Something was nagging at the back of Halof's mind. He narrowed his eyes and mustered the man in front of him, but his train of thought escaped him. Ah, well, if it was important, it would come back. He only shrugged his shoulders in answer to the housecarl's question and resumed "And there was a man in here, asking about you."

Argis lifted his head at the news that did not sound good at all. As far as he knew there was nobody looking for him. "Who?" he asked, dreading the answer, because the only solution he could think of involved the Thalmor. His only consolation was that none of the soldiers would ever talk to the elves, as it would most likely doom them as well.

But Halof only shrugged, answering "Some stranger I haven't seen 'round before." The veteran's brows furrowed. "Come to think of it, he was quite subtle about it so that I didn't think anything was strange until after he left." He shrugged and lifted his hands when he saw Argis' look of disbelief "I didn't tell him nothing' he couldn't have found out anywhere else," he said, lifting his hands in exasperation. "At least he got the truth here, not the filthy hogwash Kleppr spreads!"

That much was true and Argis knew that Halof meant him no harm. He swirled the last dregs of his drink around in his mug, considering whether he wanted to confide in the landlord, whom he considered to be a friend, when the doors burst open, banging loudly against the wall and a throng of soldiers entered.

First and foremost in the line that formed to the bar was Lars, who cheerfully greeted the housecarl who sat to his right and turned to the landlord, calling out "Ho, Halof, why don't ya get me somethin' to wet me throat?"

"Aren't you sick of drinking your wits away every night?" Halof asked with no small amount of disgust.

"I get sick sometimes," Lars confirmed and with a big smile he continued "But then I drink some more to make it go away!"

Halof shook his head, grabbed a mug from under the counter and filled it up, shouting for his assistant to begin dishing out today's meal. He couldn't exactly refuse a Nord his drink or he'd be out of business before he could say 'mead'.

In the meantime Lars grinned up at Argis, blinked and did a double take, his customary smile disappearing slowly to be replaced with a worried frown. His friend looked miserable not at all like the composed, stalwart warrior he usually was as he dejectedly stared into his mug, like he was expecting to find an answer to his problems inside.

"Hey, Argis," Lars began cautiously "What's wrong? "Ya look like ya got fucked with the wrong end of a sword."

The blunt statement made Argis laugh out loud, but it was not an amused sound. Though crude, it described pretty well how he was feeling right now. He was saved from answering when Halof's assistant appeared from the kitchens and put the first plate in front of Argis, who immediately began to eat, though the normally good meal tasted like ashes to him today.

Lars obviously got the message and let him be, striking up a conversation with Halof instead. Getting Argis to do something when he did not want to was like working with a particularly intractable mule. You had to dangle a carrot in front of him, not kick as that would only make him dig his heels in all the harder. It wasn't the best comparison maybe, but it fit.

With a start the housecarl suddenly realized what it was that his friend and the landlord were talking about as a snippet reached his ears.

"...the Jarl's just declared it," Lars said, waving around a piece of parchment in evident excitement.

Argis leaned over and snatched it from his hands, wincing as a twinge of pain shot through his damaged arm when he twisted it the wrong way. He stared at the placard and the face that was depicted upon it. There were similar ones for wanted criminals, but this one was to notify the citizenry of a new Thane so that all could recognize him; in the streets the couriers probably cried the news so that all would know. 'Wulfryk, Thane of Markarth and the Reach', the big bold letters said. Argis felt lightheaded as all blood drained from his face. Up until now he had hoped that the Jarl had played just a cruel trick on him, but there was no more room for such fantasies now. "Where did you get this?" he asked hoarsely.

"They're all 'round the city," Lars answered and turned back to Halof again to pick up where they had left off. "Nobody's ever seen him before...I'm wondering..."

"You're still wondering about what happened to your sweets," Halof rudely interrupted him.

"They're disappeared," Lars cried. "It's a mystery!"

The truth was that Argis, Ralof and Thurek had gotten drunk one evening when Lars was on patrol and they had done the unthinkable: eaten another Nord's sweetrolls. Argis very much doubted that nobody had seen them, the soldiers probably were all afraid to accuse their commander and his closest friends for being the culprits. At any rate, watching Lars fumble in the dark was outright hilarious. Argis would have to make it up to the man for providing such a splendid source of amusement.

He would visit the bakery tomorrow, he decided, putting down the piece of parchment. There was nothing he could do about it now, anyways. On the morrow the entire city would know.

Halof caught a glimpse of the drawing and gaped. "That's the man who came by, the one I told you 'bout," he exclaimed in surprise, addressing Argis.

"What's he doin' in here?" Lars muttered. A Thane in the 'Shed? Halof must've savoured too much of his own mead.

"Asking about Argis," Halof said slowly and the housecarl could almost see the wheels turning in his head like in one of those ancient Dwemer machines that were exhibited in the Understone Keep. The veteran looked up and his eyes met Argis' and the warrior saw the understanding dawn in them. So Halof had figured it out already. They both completely ignored it when the doors were slammed open once more and another group of soldiers marched in.

"Is it true?" the veteran enquired in a hushed voice, looking around to make sure that nobody listened in and leaning across the counter.

"Is what true?" Lars asked distractedly, looking around for his other friends amidst the new arrivals and waving his arm when he spotted one "Oi, Rolf, over here!"

"Yeah," Argis sighed.

"Is what true?" Lars threw in again, turning back once more. "Argis? Is what true?"

It wasn't the housecarl that answered though, but Halof who silently explained "Argis got assigned a Thane, Lars."

"Oh," the soldier's eyes grew as wide as the plate he was eating from. "Oh." He looked from one man to the other, not sure whether they were not trying to trick him like they sometimes liked to do. Their dead serious expressions convinced him that it really was true. Well, that was some material for juicy gossip. At once Lars jumped up, turned around and, standing on tiptoe so he could look over the crowd, he yelled "Rolfrik! Hey Rolf!" Lars, bellowed enough for everyone to hear. "Guess what! Argis got a new Thane!"

There went Argis' hopes at keeping things quiet. He cast his friend a filthy glare and grumbled "Thank you for keeping your yapping hole shut." In the sudden silence that followed Lars' declaration his words rang out loudly.

"Hey, if you wanted to keep it a secret, you shouldn't have told me," Lars shot back, unfazed.

" _I_ didn't," Argis muttered, but his voice was drowned out by the clamour that ensued.

Within seconds Argis found himself surrounded by a circle of curious spectators, all of them pestering him with questions and looking at him expectantly.

"No, I don't know what he's like," the blond warrior shouted in answer to some of the enquiries "And I don't know where he came from," and "Dammit, it wasn't me cooling my heels in the city!" They wouldn't leave him be and he finally barked at them in annoyance "What are you gawking at, you bloody clods? Go away and get back to your drinking or I'll have you working double shifts!"

"On your orders," somebody shouted and another voice added "Anybody wish he'd say that more often?" and a wave of laughter followed. Slowly the crowd dispersed again, the soldiers either congratulating Argis or voicing their sympathies. Apparently they could not make up their minds whether they should be happy for the housecarl or as upset as he himself felt.

Only two remained: Lars and Rolf who had fought his way through the crowd with the help of his elbows. "When's he to arrive?" Argis' second-in-command asked the warrior.

"After court," Argis replied. That meant five at the earliest. He still had hours to kill.

"We can help you get drunk to make you less nervous," Lars offered helpfully.

"Oh, yes, that will make for a very good first impression, muttonhead," Rolf stated wryly and tangled his fingers in Lars' short, red hair, before yanking him backwards off the stool and taking the seat for himself.

Lars picked himself up in record time and appeared at Argis' right side. "Bit late for that, don't you think," he shot back and looking round he simply pulled the seat from under the man next to him. It was a good way to start a brawl and when the soldier climbed to his feet again and lifted his fists, cursing like an old sailor, Lars used the stool whack him upside the head and knocked him clean out. His friends dragged the unconscious man off and nobody else battered an eyelash. The Shambling Shed was not one of those fancy places where one had to show manners. It was loud, rowdy and full with fighting men out to have a good time.

"Come on, Argis," Rolf tried to cheer up the warrior "This is what you were meant to do. You'll be fine!"

Argis snorted. "Sure, I only got my last Thane killed. No problem, I'll just get another one. Lately they sprout in Markarth like mushrooms," he muttered dismally.

"Yeah," Lars threw in readily "But ya get better with practice, as they say."

"Gods," Argis choked out. He honestly no longer knew whether he felt like crying or laughing. Both, probably. His friends kept drinking and they did make a marvellous job of distracting him. Some time later they began to analyse his good and bad attributes. The amount of mead they consumed however, soon had the talk spinning into the ridiculous.

"You're the best fighter in all the Reach," Rolf counted out for the fourth time.

"Ya can be a bossy arse, though," Lars countered and tried to clap the housecarl on the shoulder in consolation, missed and hit himself instead, adding "Yar still me bestest friend though."

"And you're all scar...scary...scarry and," Rolf's finger hovered unsteadily in front of Argis' face for a moment and poked him in the chin, before the blond warrior slapped his hand away. "And you've got a t...tat...tatoo," the archer stammered out and grinned like it was all the explanation Argis would ever need.

"Well, ya ain't no virgin though and that's a minus," Lars called out, giggling like a madman.

Rolf seemed perplexed at the sudden change. "What's that got to do with anything? It's not like he's goin' to be naked.

"Ya could, Argis, ya'r kinda hot," Lars said to the housecarl and hurriedly added "for a man."

Rolf just stared at the redhead, shaking his head slowly enough that his vision did not spin. The man should be gagged.

"What?" Lars shouted when he saw the look Rolf gave him. "I'd totally do him if he were a gal. Or if I was into the other thing," he mused.

Halof listened in on Lars and Ralof debate Argis' virtues and after disappearing shortly he returned with a full tankard that he handed the blond warrior, who had buried his head in his hands, probably trying to block out the slurred voices of his friends, who still argued back and forth.

"Drink's on the house."

 oooo

Argis left the tavern shortly after, but first he charged Halof with keeping a close eye on his friends to prevent them from doing something stupid, like showing up at his doorstep later. The last thing Argis needed was for Lars to vomit on the man who was to become his Thane. Halof promised he would keep the drink flowing and by the time the two of them drank their way through the tab Argis paid for, they wouldn't be going anywhere.

Arriving in Vlindrel Hall Argis first lit a fire and seated himself in a comfortable chair next to the fireplace. It was a strategic location; he would see his Thane, before the other man saw him. An advantage like this was often crucial in a fight. He was telling himself that he was preparing to meet his Thane, not going into battle. Not that it helped. He'd rather _be_ in a battle.

Argis nibbled on a piece of bread, more because he needed something to do, than because he was hungry. And sharpening his sword might send the wrong message, if it was the first thing his Thane would see after he walked in. He kept glancing at the door every few seconds and his foot bounced up and down restlessly in a show of nerves that he would never allow himself when he was with his men.

Suddenly, there was the scrape of a key in the lock. Argis went stock-still; he put away his food and dusted his hands of the crumbs, his composure perfectly calm once more.

It was the calm that came before the storm.

'This is it', he thought. His future life hinged on the next minutes. That might be putting it a bit dramatic, but it was true nonetheless. Everything was in order. Now it was only up to Argis to make a good impression.

The massive doors to Vlindrel Hall swung open and Argis saw the silhouette of a big man block out the light.


	55. HT

 Wulfryk looked around from where he was standing on the top of the stairs that led to his new home, Vlindrel Hall. He was breathing heavily from carrying his gear up all those flights of stairs, but the view over Markarth alone was worth it. He was not at the highest point of the city, that would be the temple of Dibella, but like all the fine manors it was in the upper district, away from the clamour of the market and the smithies, the poverty of the warrens and the smoke that coiled thickly from the silver smelters.

Wulf had acquired the Hall yestereve, when Jarl Igmund had proclaimed him Thane of the Reach. Another title and more duties he neither needed nor wanted. There already was a weight to his name that Wulf wholeheartedly wished away, but to no avail, as the gods had once more made him the butt end of one of their jokes.

After what had happened he had shaken off the responsibility, cut his ties with both friends and the Companions, with the Jarl and with Whiterun. It was better this way. They would be better off for the lack of his company, even if not all agreed with him.

Only, Wulf had ended getting caught in the very same net once again and though he had seen the pattern, there had been nothing he could have done about escaping it. He had proven himself a capable warrior and done the Jarl a favour and thus he had been gifted the title of Thane. Things had proceeded almost too fast for him to comprehend, until he found himself shaking Jarl Igmund's hand, smiling an entirely fake smile and nodding his head whilst inwardly he wanted to scream in frustration. Wulf's only consolation was that here, far away from the Whiterun Hold he was just a stranger. A powerful one, thanks to his new position, but a stranger nonetheless.

Nobody knew about his heritage that some superstitious fools called destiny, about him being a Companion and the slayer of a dragon, a reluctant hero that none would hail were they to know about his true nature. Because Wulfryk had secrets, ones that he preferred to keep in the dark, far from the light of prying eyes and the possibility of being overheard by curious ears.

Markarth had been as far as he could have run without outright leaving Skyrim and he was not ashamed to admit, that run he did. At least to himself. Nobody else needed to know and, best of all, nobody did.

Maybe having the title of Thane would not be so bad, after all. He had needed a house that would suit his position and Wulf had coin aplenty and no desire to keep it. So now here he was, staring at the metal doors and wondering what lay behind them. A better future, hopefully.

Although the probability was higher it would just be a dusty anteroom. Oh well, one should take what one could get. Even if it came with spiders. Farkas probably wouldn't agree, but the big warrior wasn't here. Wulf felt grief and guilt wash over him. He sorely missed his friend; things had never been the same again since their accursed trip to Dustman's Cairn. Since the Silver Hand had... – with a start Wulf realized he had been doing it again; wallowing in the past.

He couldn't change the events that had gone before and wishing things had never happened would not make them undone. Wulf felt his mood soured by his little memory trip and kicked open the door to his new home, partially to blow off steam and because he had his hands full towing in his pack and personal effects.

Once inside, he looked around curiously, distracted by the interior. He had feared that if Vlindrel Hall was anything like the palace, he would be living in a boiling tea kettle. But everything was quiet, there was no rubble lying strewn around, no mechanical clamour, no pipes from which steam escaped with a high-pitched whistle and – thank the divines for it – no Dwemer sculptures made from scraps of junk metal. Whoever had been tasked with the interior decoration of the palace should be banned from his occupation for a lifetime.

However, Wulf found himself standing on a thick carpet and looking up at the ceiling, through which light filtered to illuminate the corridor and the plants that grew in huge pots. It looked welcoming, so he made to enter the living room. He didn't make it far.

"Boots off!" a deep voice suddenly barked, making Wulf jump a foot in the air and drop what he was carrying.

Wulfryk's hand closed around the hilt of his sword before he even registered the action, his eyes roving across the room and setting on a place deep in the shadows, behind fireplace. He couldn't see the speaker, but the man sure sounded like he meant business and Wulf obediently towed his shoes off. No need to piss off his amiable host, whoever the guy was.

There was the creak of a chair and a figure detached itself from the dark corner. The other man stepped forward, into the light of the fire and Wulf could see he looked maybe a bit embarrassed and, almost shyly, he said in a hoarse voice "My Thane...welcome to Vlindrel Hall."

Oh. So that's who he was. Of course, the Jarl had told him he would have a housecarl, only Wulf's brain hadn't made the connection yet. He realized he was still gripping his sword and let go abruptly, thinking of something he could say in return.

Only he was distracted by the way the warrior's upper arm strained against his shirtsleeve when he raised his hand to scratch at his neck in obvious discomfort.

Wulfryk quite openly seized up the hunk of a Nord that had been assigned as his húskarl. He had to give the man credit for not fidgeting under his unblinking stare, but then Argis was a beast of a man, Wulf thought, not only for his ferocious looking scars, but his physique alone. And that was coming from somebody, who had spent the past two years with the Companions, Skyrim's most fabled warriors. Argis might not be as tall as either of the twins, but he could easily keep up with Farkas when it came to breadth of shoulders and chest.

At six feet and an inch of height and over two hundred pounds, Wulf by no means of reckoning on Tamriel could be called a small man. Argis was both taller and he must have had forty pounds on Wulfryk. _At least._ Well, there was nothing like a trip to his homeland to make Wulf feel like the runt of the litter.

 

xxxx

 

Argis berated himself for the umpteenth time for the way he had reacted. This wasn't one of the soldiers he could order around. He only hoped he hadn't scared the poor sod out of his mind.

The guy was still staring at him like he had never seen another human being before and quite frankly, it made Argis uncomfortable. For some reason he felt like a bloody steak presented to a wolf, the way his Thane's piercing blue eyes were drilling into him.

He took the time to muster the man in turn. He had a muscular build, obviously a fighter by the way he carried himself and by how quickly he had reacted when Argis had spoken up. That was all that mattered, although Argis noticed other things as well, like his handsome Nord features, unusually dark skin, black hair and short, but thick beard that was trimmed close to his Thane's jaw line.

As if a spell was broken, the man suddenly broke into a wide smile. It seemed Argis had passed the inspection. The corner of one of his front teeth was chipped, giving his Thane's smile a crooked, but somewhat endearing appearance.

"I'm Wulf," he said, extending his hand. "And you must be Argis. I have heard the stories," he added with a wink.

Of course he had heard them. The man had been snooping around, after all. Still, Argis took the offered hand, pleased to find the palm calloused and the grip strong.

"That's me," Argis replied. 'And the first time I've heard anything about _you_ was this very morning' he thought and said "It is an honour to meet you, Thane."

Unknowing to him, Wulfryk had heard those words before, but the Thane only reacted with a twitch of his lips, before he turned to survey the living room, humming in appreciation.

"Did you furnish the place?" he asked, curiosity mixing with a note of wonder in his voice.

"No, the man who lived here before," Argis answered curtly. It was almost true.

Wulfryk tilted his head to the side, as if his housecarl's answer presented a riddle that needed to be solved. "But you live here, right?" he enquired further. The Jarl had mentioned something like that, only Wulf hadn't been paying much attention.

He knew he had hit a sore spot when Argis visibly bristled. "It's my house, too," the blond warrior replied as if daring him to say otherwise.

Wulf wasn't suicidal enough to argue; besides he had no problem with the two of them sharing the mansion, unless Argis made a habit of jumping him from dark corners. After the dormitory in Jorrvaskr having his own room was almost a novel experience.

Argis watched the Thane slowly walk around the room and take everything in before the man came to a stop in front of the main fireplace and shot a meaningful glance at the cooking utensils that hung suspended above it "I see you like to cook."

Argis shrugged. "Not really. I like to eat well, though. Which makes cooking a necessity." If his Thane thought he'd be his cook or personal servant or something, he'd better think again. Else, Argis would make him.

"That's good." Wulfryk nodded his approval. "I can hunt but I can't cook worth shite. I'm pretty good with the bottle opener, though," he admitted, casting Argis a sheepish smile over his shoulder.

Despite himself, Argis felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. The guy seemed to be alright. And preparing a meal for two wouldn't be any more of a bother than it was for one. Maybe they would get along, despite his worst fears. For all the talk Argis had heard about the Thane, the man seemed to be fairly easygoing.

Right now he picked up the trunk he had dropped in the corridor and after hefting it up with a grunt he straightened and looked at Argis with expectation. At first the housecarl did not know what he was supposed to do or say, until he realized that his Thane probably wanted to unburden himself from all that he was carrying as well as his pack, which he had yet to put down.

Argis pointed further inside the house and said "Your room's at the left side, Thane." He bent to pick up a few fallen items, placed them on the table and followed the other man, leaning against the doorframe to his Thane's room with his arms crossed.

He was sworn to serve the man; he might as well put some effort into befriending him, as that would undoubtedly make his job more pleasant and a great deal easier. Besides, his Thane looked a bit lost as he stood in the middle of the bedroom, staring at the bed.

When he noticed Argis watching him, Wulfryk explained "I'm thinking about where to put things."

"There's lots of free space," Argis commented, pointing with his chin at the empty dressers.

"That's the problem." Wulf surveyed the small heap on his bed that was all of his meagre possessions.

With a pang Argis realized what it was, that his Thane was saying. The bundle of clothes, pots, and souvenirs was all he had. Out of the two of them it had been Argis living in the lap of luxury.

"Eh, scratch that," Wulfryk suddenly huffed and put his trunk into the bigger chest at the foot of the bed. He scooped up the loose items, placing them on a shelf and tossed his pack and clothes messily into the wardrobe. Only a thick leather-bound book was carefully placed on top of the nightstand. Argis' Thane dusted off his hands like he had completed some great achievement, turned to Argus and asked "So, is there someplace we could go for a drink?" Before Argis could answer he added "It's on me."

Now, that was a decent thing to do. Argis wasn't about to turn down the offer. "Just let me get my things," he grunted before he disappeared into his own room for a moment.

When he came back out he had a longseax slung over his shoulder and in his left hand he carried a large, painted shield. It depicted a stone wall with a city gate that bore striking resemblance to Markarth's own gates.

'The Bulwark', indeed, Wulf thought. Argis carried his armour with surprising ease, almost as if the steel weighted nothing at all. Wulf knew a dangerous man when he saw one; Argis set off every warning bell in his mind. There was no reason why the housecarl should wish him any harm, though so he left behind his skyforge steel sword, but he did take his fighting knife with him, just in case. He doubted he would need anything else. Wulf was a dangerous man, too.

He walked besides Argis as the housecarl led them through several winding alleyways that Wulf had not yet set foot in. In the dark he was lost after the fifth turn, but Argis' sure stride convinced him of the fact that the housecarl knew where he was going. To strike up a conversation, Wulf asked "You've been living in Markarth for long?"

"Almost two decades, Thane," Argis replied.

Wulf could not imagine what it was like, to spend one's entire life in one place, but he knew that this was the rule for most people and that his own lifestyle was the exception. He wondered where Argis had grown up, because the man was older, probably by another ten years or so, but the question felt too personal for Wulf to ask.

A short while later, Argis spoke up once more "Here we are."

Wulf looked up at the building in front of them and the green letters above it that read 'The Jolly Giant'. The wooden sign showed a drunk giant dancing around a fire. Wulf snorted. He had seen a few of the creatures and their herds of mammoth, but they never stroke him as particularly jovial.

But despite the unremarkable exterior the tavern was welcoming on the inside, brightly lit by many candles and warm due to the fires roaring in two fireplaces. They took a small table in a comfortable nook at the back of the room. The benches had cushions that were covered by cloth woven from many colours, making the room look cozy and inviting and sitting decidedly more comfortable. The candle had tilted a bit and wax dribbled onto the table where it congealed. Wulf scratched at it, because it gave him something to do with his hands.

Thankfully, it did not take long for an elderly serving woman to arrive at their table. Apparently she and the housecarl knew each other well, because she greeted him warmly and by his name.

"Good to see you Argis, dear. It's been some time since I've seen you here. Been drinking at the 'Shed lately?" she then scolded, casting him a sharp look.

With a sigh she patted his hand to show she wasn't really angry at him and Wulf saw Argis smile warmly up at her. "Hello, Agata. You know I can't bring the boys here, you forbid me to do so myself."

"Damn right I did!" she exclaimed with no small amount of self-righteousness. "But your friend is welcome here, he looks to be of the decent sort," she said more to Wulf, who watched the entire exchange with a great deal of amusement.

"It will be the usual, yes?" she asked Argis, who was left feeling uncomfortable at her last words, but refused to show it, and without waiting for his answer she turned to Wulf "And you, dear?"

Wulf chose a dark root ale and the woman left to bring their orders. To avoid an awkward silence from setting in he opted for another question "So, have you been a housecarl long?"

"Nearly six years. I was in training before and in the army before that."

"It must be very strange, having somebody move in so suddenly," Wulf prompted.

Argis was not sure whether this was meant as a weird sort of apology or as a test. He doubted it was the latter, Wulfryk did not strike him to be of the underhanded sort, but out of caution he replied formally "It's an honour to serve you, Thane."

Although, thus far, Argis had found out that he preferred his position as a housecarl when there was no Thane attached to it.

Wulfryk looked up and his Thane's blue eyes met Argis' amber one. "You'll choke on those words one day, Sunshine." The grin Argis got was outright predatory.

'Sunshine'? Argis' heartbeat picked up. Something told him the man was trouble. And, for better or worse their fates were now intertwined.

It was a relief when Agata arrived and put down two mugs in front of them as well as a huge pan of spicy potato slices and a bowl of sour cream to dip them in.

"It's on the house," the serving woman said with a wink and scurried off again.

"I see you come here often," Wulf asked Argis when she was out of earshot.

"I used to," the housecarl replied with a shrug and reached for a potato chip, despite them being hot from the oven.

Wulf dipped in as well and cursed vulgarly when he burned his fingers. He shook his hand and sucked on the hurt digit.

"Careful, Thane, they are hot," Argis warned him in a flat tone, although with barely conceiled amusement.

Wulf shot him a dark glare and snapped "Thank you, serah obvious."

"You're welcome, serah oblivious."

There was a sudden silence as Argis realized what he had said and to _whom_. For a moment he almost had believed he had been trading banter with one of his friends. Now, he found himself cursing inwardly at his lapse.

His Thane sniffed with affront, levelled his potato accusingly at Argis' face and in a silent voice he muttered. "Fine. You win this round."

Argis blinked, stunned. He saw Wulfryk's lips quirk in an attempt to hide his smile. His Thane wasn't angry?

The other man let his mask fall away, crunched on his food and promised "I'll get you next time."

A challenge, if Argis had ever heard one. Apparently his Thane did not know that Argis never backed away from a challenge.

"So, what's with the no shoes rule?" Wulf abruptly changed the course of their conversation.

Argis grunted, talking a gulp of ale from his foaming tankard. Somehow he knew he would never hear the end of it if. "Do you know how much work it is to clean the carpets?" he enquired.

"Ummm, no?" Wulf had never owned a carpet. He certainly had never cleaned one.

"I propose a deal, Thane." Argis leaned over the table. "If you make sure to clean them afterwards, you get to keep on the boots."

For reasons unknown Wulfryk thought accepting the offer was a really bad idea. "No, thank you," he refused. When Argis chuckled, Wulf knew for certain he had made the right choice.

The blond warrior warmed up to him a bit after Wulf put his charm to work. Argis didn't dislike him, but he was suspicious by nature and it took a while until he began to ask questions of his own. An hour later found them with their old drinks, but a new pan, engrossed in conversation.

His housecarl's gruff nature and coarse manners didn't bother Wulf in the least. He had spent his life amongst fighting men, a lot of them being of the unsavoury sort. Argis wasn't like that, Wulf could tell. The man had a code of honour that he stuck to and a duty he took seriously. In many ways he resembled the Companions. Wulf wondered whether throwing a sweetroll at someone in Markarth was as sure a sign of fondness as it had been in Jorrvaskr. It certainly would be hilarious to find out.

Argis felt himself relaxing. Experience told him he shouldn't be letting down his guard, but in his gut he knew he could trust this man. At least a little bit. Argis felt a smile pull at his mouth. This wasn't like it had been with Bjorn at all. It was more like catching up to an old friend whom he had not seen in a long time. Maybe the Gods listened to his prayers, after all.

 oooo

That night Argis awoke abruptly to a loud crash and cursing. Somebody was in his house. That was one thief who had picked the wrong house. Before he was fully awake, Argis grabbed his sword that leaned against the wall next to his bed and he charged out of his room, ready to confront the intruder.

He almost stumbled across the man who lay sprawled on the floor, hopelessly tangled in a chair. He was only wearing pants and, when he saw Argis storm out of his room with a bellow, he looked panicked for one moment.

"What is the..." Argis did not get much further, before it dawned on him that this man was his Thane, as of yesterday. He suddenly felt slightly embarrassed, not because he was stark naked, but because he still held his sword at guard. He lowered the tip, letting it sink to the floor between his feet and surveyed the scene, though he could not discern much in the near total darkness, now that the fire had burned low.

Wulf blinked. He had a nice, if upside-down view of Arigs' privies. He would have whistled, only he didn't fancy being skewered for it. Instead, he settled for flattery. "Ah, my faithful housecarl arrives in my time of need."

"Thane!?"

"I was set upon by this dastardly piece of mahogany furniture in a most vicious way."

"What?"

Damn it, wasn't it evident? "I lost the fight with the chair," Wulf whined pitifully.

Argis stared at him for a moment longer and, without comment he shouldered his sword, turned around and marched back into his room, muttering something Wulf did not catch, the tone of which he knew well though.

If Wulf was going to trip over his feet and make a fool of himself, he'd rather do it sooner than later. Gods forbid, people might take him seriously otherwise. Another memorable performance by Wulfryk Blacktyde. He cursed when trying to wriggle out from under the back rest caused his leg to twist in the wrong way.

 oooo

Thanks to his Thane's nightly escapade, Argis had some trouble falling asleep again and in the morning he slept longer than usual. When he awoke it was to vivid cursing. Argis had a strange sense of having lived through this once already, a few hours ago. He listened to the profanities and thought that his mother would have threatened to wash his Thane's mouth with soap; for a man of such good looks, he certainly could spew some filth.

"...damn to Oblivion the shitheaded, sodding son of a snowtroll who first thought of them bloody stone beds," closely followed by more unhappy mutters "Of all the surfaces one could sleep on, how did a stone slab win?!"

Argis winced in sympathy, it looked like asking his Thane whether he had had a good night was an excess in futility. When he entered the dining room, he saw Wulfryk massaging his back with one hand and picking at his food with a fork with the other. There was a pan with scrambled eggs and a few slices of bread on the table as well as dishes for two. It wasn't the right pan, but Argis was willing to give his Thane credit for trying. Having another man in his house wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant either.

"We should invent a new house rule, besides the no-shoes-thing," Wulfryk greeted him when Argis sat down next to him.

"What would that rule be, Thane?"

"Banishment of clothes," Wulfryk stated confidently.

"Dream on. I won't fight off your enemies in nothing but my dignity," Argis grunted. He refrained from mentioning that there had been no need for clothes when he had been living alone.

"You did yesterday," Wulf pointed out.

"What was that, if I may ask, Thane?"

"I wanted to go to the bathroom and I tripped," Wulf hastily explained. He had forgotten the single step in front of his room, slipped on the marble floor and crashed into the table with enough force for him to roll down on the other side. All because there was a bathroom. A huge one with the freaking biggest bathtub set in the stone floor that Wulf had ever seen. Argis had given him the tour of the house yesterday, when they had returned from the tavern.

His housecarl chose not to comment further. Instead he asked "Do you have any orders, Thane?"

Wulf nodded. Indeed he did. "Go, buy me a bed."

Argis forewent chewing in favour of staring at the man sitting opposite him. "What?"

"It's not that difficult a task," Wulf said, furrowing his brows. "Buy a bed," he repeated. "A big one. With four posts. And with canopies. And a lovely mattress, but make sure it's not too soft. It shouldn't be too hard, either." That about covered it. "Oh, don't forget the bedding."

"Anything else?" Argis sighed.

His question might have been rhetoric, but Wulfryk cheerfully answered "No, that about covers it." After a moment of thought he addressed Argis once more. "How can you stand it?"

"What?" Argis asked absent-mindedly, as he was pondering where he would get a bed from for his Thane. Markarth was a city of stonemasons, not carpenters. He didn't see his Thane narrow his eyes at him in suspicion.

"Sleeping on stone, Sunshine." When Argis only fidgeted with the tablecloth and failed to answer, the truth downed on Wulf. "Wait! Do you have a bed?" he suddenly burst out.

"Of course I have a bed," Argis replied gruffly. He hadn't commented on Markarth's stone beds, else he would have been honour-bound to offer his Thane his own bed. Only, no fucking way was Argis going to sleep on a cold, hard slab of stone. He wasn't crazy like that and he wasn't young anymore. His Thane didn't exactly look happy with the revelation. Argis couldn't blame him.

"Are you sure you don't want to come to make a choice?" he asked his Thane without much hope, but in attempt to be nice.

Wulfryk shook his head in negation as soon as the housecarl had begun to speak. "No, I need to meet with the Jarl. Speaking of which, what time is it?"

"Half past seven," Argis guessed. He usually was right about it too.

His Thane visibly blanched. "Then I should have been there half an hour ago." He jumped got up and jogged to his room in order to dress more formally, leaving Argis to clean up after breakfast.

A very short time later Wulfryk was about to leave when Argis' deep voice made him stop mid-step.

Wulf honestly couldn't tell if the man was being serious or making fun of him when he said "Have fun at court."

His Thane turned around to grin at Argis before retorting "Have fun lugging the furniture up all those stairs."

He got him there. Argis sighed. It would be a long day for them both, by the looks of it.


	56. HT

After finishing his breakfast alone, Argis quickly put away the dishes, grabbed a heavy, fur-lined, albeit sleeveless vest against the cold and left Vlindrel Hall to fulfil the assignment given to him by his Thane. Whilst he wasn't exactly overjoyed by the task, he nonetheless was in a light-hearted mood that bordered on cheerful, whistling a merry tune to a drinking song that Lars had made up a long time ago. His body seemed to be humming with an excess of energy that he would have to work off in the training ring later.

In spite of, or maybe because of his recent doubts concerning his appointment as housecarl and the man who would be his Thane, Argis found that he was looking forward to what today would bring with no small measure of excitement.

He couldn't believe that only one day had passed since his routine had been interrupted by a summoning of the Jarl. For the first time since that morning he felt like he had solid ground under his feet again and not like somebody had pulled the rug from under him. And it felt good.

Should any problems arise, Argis would tackle them head on. That's who he was, not that nervous wreck from the day before. He would not let any differences or misunderstandings get between him and his Thane, the way it had happened four years ago. Better to start with a clean slate and suffer through disagreements now than to let them lie and fester.

With that decision firmly in mind Argis began his search though true to his concern neither of Markarth's two best established carpenters had what he needed. There was no use in roaming any of the smaller shops and thus the housecarl followed one of the craftsman's advice to visit another cabinetmaker's workshop that was located outside of the city.

The day was shaping up to be beautiful with the sun shining down from a cloudless, deep blue sky and the dry, frozen grass crunched under Argis' feet as he made his way to behind the soldier's barracks, past pens for livestock and to the corrals where several small herds of horses grazed. A ride sounded just about perfect right now and he would cover the distance much faster on horseback.

He had taken a rather large amount of coin with him and promptly decided to settle his debt with Volkar, the military's own stable master from the monthly rent he paid for having his horse stabled, groomed, fed and worked if he did not have time; even though it was not due yet.

Argis had learned to ride as a part of his training, after all he had to be able to keep up with a Thane should he be mounted, but he had kept riding long after his training was over. He had always liked and admired the big, friendly animals and there were few activities besides sword fighting that let him find a deep, inner calm where he could forget his worries and the rest of the world and just enjoy the moment. Three years ago the warrior had bought his stallion cheaply as a two year old at an auction. More because he had searched for things that would keep him occupied in his free time than because he needed a horse. It was a pity he seldom found the time for a leisurely ride.

Argis made good use of the opportunity, warming up his horse with a brisk walk before he allowed it to let off steam in a rapid gallop. He reached his destination, a tiny settlement with a huge mill after an hour of hard riding.

The Reach was ragged country, full of stone canyons and deep valleys with winding rivers and huge mountain ranges in between gentle rolling hills. Few trees grew in this harsh land; mostly juniper, yew, twisted mountain pines and tall firs that reached towards the sky in places where the soil was thick enough for them to sink their roots in.

The best Nord longbows were made of yew and came from the Reach, but the same could not be said of furniture. Quality wood was expensive in Markarth and not easy to come by and the majority of it was supplied by the very workshop that Argis now entered.

Most people simply stuffed mattresses to make their stone beds more comfortable or bought cheap bunks, but his Thane had made a special request and it was up to Argis to make sure he got it.

The proprietor of the shop greeted the housecarl warmly and was overjoyed to hear his demand.

"Thank Zenithar," the elderly man cried, clapping his hands and led them to a storage room. "I have exactly what you need. Ordered by the late Madame Clea Silverblood and never paid for, I thought I'd never get rid of it," he confessed in a rush. "I do not usually give discounts, but I am willing to make an exception this time."

Argis found out why the man was so forthcoming and eager to sell off the bed as soon as he saw it. It was a huge, cumbersome thing and ugly as fuck with all its carvings of wood fairies and the Divines knew what else and Argis was half of a mind to turn down the offer, but that would leave him standing empty handed with an order that would take much time to fulfil. He shrugged. The warrior had asked his Thane to accompany him after all. The man had lost his right to decide when he had refused.

"I'll need it delivered," Argis pointed out. "Today."

"Markarth?" the carpenter asked and resumed without waiting for an answer "It's a good thing I have a cart and two strong sons to help you carry it, for a little extra that is. They will take it apart and reassemble it indoors. Quite a clever mechanism. I have invented it myself..."

Before the old man could get lost in his tale about hinges and joinery, Argis interrupted him somewhat brusquely. The housecarl paid half of the original price, which was still a great amount of gold, without complaining. He was glad to have found something and eager to be done with it. True to the old craftsman's word, his two sons loaded the bed onto the dray but when it came to carrying it up Markarth's stairs, Argis had to lend a hand, or rather two, and a great amount of muscular strength besides.

The temperature might be below freezing, but before they were done, the three Nords had doffed their warm clothes, leaving on only their shirts that were plastered to their backs with sweat. When they finished at long last, Argis offered his helpers drinks as refreshment and they left with words of thanks, tired but happy after receiving their ‘little extra’.

After their departure the housecarl finally had his home to himself. As a cause of the heavy lifting he had done, his right arm had begun to cramp up and Argis sank down in a chair and with a grunt of discomfort he began to massage the damaged limb, shaking out and loosening his spasming muscles.

The injury had happened recently, one battle wound of many that was making itself known at unfortunate times.

The pulling sensation never stopped, but the pain faded away over time, as always. By the time it did Argis had purchased all the bedding his Thane would ever need, eaten dinner and was currently debating whether he should visit the training grounds and find somebody willing to spar with him or whether he should wait for his Thane to come back from his meeting with the Jarl.

On one hand he had no idea when the man would return, on the other a housecarl should always be where his Thane expected him to be.

The decision was taken from him when the doors opened and Wulfryk entered, kicked off his boots messily and proceeded by tossing his overcoat at a chair and missing. He did not pick it up, leaving it on the floor and Argis felt a twinge of annoyance course through him. The housecarl still rose to greet his Thane formally, receiving a nod and a tired smile as an answer.

 oooo

Wulf brushed past the man who was standing at attention and walked directly into his bedroom, wanting nothing more than to grab a little shut-eye.

"Now that's a welcome sight." Beds were the one crucial piece of furniture that Wulf could think of straight away. He would have to remember to thank Argis for it later.

"Is there anything else you would have me do, Thane?" the man enquired cautiously from the living room.

"Hm? It's a lovely day. Why don't you take the rest of it off?" Wulf suggested. He wasn't going to be good company right now; his eyes were closing of their own accord. "As for me, I'm going to hug that mattress," he continued before his housecarl could ask anything else and proceeded to do just that.

 oooo

Argis caught himself gaping at the man who had fallen into bed without bothering to take off his clothes first, rolled over once to get himself under the covers before he sighed happily. Apparently his Thane had not enjoyed his court session.

Well, this had been...over quickly.

As he was excused for what was left of the day, Argis decided to follow through with his original plan and pay the training grounds a visit. On his way out he stepped over his Thane's discarded coat, sniffed at the offending garment and quickly left his home before he could pick it up. He wasn't going to clean up after a slob. Argis was a tidy person, he led an orderly life and he could already tell that his Thane did not fit in.

It bothered the Nord, the loss of his freedom that he had grown so accustomed to.

He distracted himself by a brief stroll through the city during which he fed his cat, though Pounce did not show herself today and purchased a collection of sweets for Lars. He had promised to, after all. Argis found his friends asleep in a corner of the Shed. He decided against waking them and only placed the box next to them. Turning to leave he was stopped by Halof's voice.

"How did it go?" the veteran shouted, hastily appearing from one of the back rooms with a dropping mop.

Argis did not have to enquire to know what he meant. "Good," he replied gruffly, though he could not stop the corner of his mouth from twitching upwards. "Got the day off. Thought I'd give my practice sword a few swings."

Halof laughed out loud "Ian's men just came back and Brigge's company's about to leave; good luck finding somebody sober enough."

Argis just grinned at the landlord. They both knew he'd simply order the soldiers to fight him, something most of them were less than enthusiastic about. Argis would allow them to refuse the day one of his men got the better of him. It was a fair and a motivating objective that nobody had even come close to achieving.

The housecarl spent the next few hours on the training grounds. Only once the sun set behind the mountains that surrounded Markarth and the light grew too weak for sparring did he call it a day and put away his armour and weapons. Argis left the small group of soldiers that had not yet disappeared into the barracks with words of encouragement, clapping some of them on the back. He liked to make sure that there was no bad blood between him and the men he had beaten, but despite all their grumbling the soldiers were glad to receive training and advice from the best warrior of the Reach.

Content, Argis made his way back to Vlindrel Hall, stretching and shaking out his muscles to prevent them from aching on the next day. There, the Nord paused before entering his home, taking a few seconds to compose himself, to recall his duty.

It was true what he had told Halof, namely that his Thane and he had along well. But one evening spent drinking and talking was hardly enough to predict the future on. And in spite of the housecarl's vows to protect his Thane he took neither joy nor pride in serving the man. It was a job, nothing more, though Argis had every intention of doing it well. His Thane and Argis were still strangers.

There was precious little respect between them and no trust at all, and how could there be? But...they could work on that. Get to know each other better. Yesterday had been fine. Argis told himself that today would be too. He wasn't fully convinced things weren't going to go downhill as soon as he entered the Hall, but that was bad experience catching up with him. Of another time, another man.

Wulfryk looked up from the maps he was studying when he heard the door open and the heavy tread of his housecarl returning. "Evening, Argis," he greeted the man, noticing the discomfort of the other Nord straight away.

Argis inclined his head and courteously replied "Good evening, my Thane." He chose to be formal, not sure where they stood today.

He usually spent his evenings cooking his meal for the next day and mending clothes and armour but if there was nothing to be done, he turned in early, for a soldier's day began with the first rays of daylight. Now though the housecarl had his Thane to think of, he couldn't just ignore the man and withdraw into his own room, could he? Argis wasn't sure he wanted company today, he had gotten used to the peace of solitary life.

His Thane had other plans "Why don't you join me?" Wulf asked, leaning away from the table he was seated at, balancing his chair unsteadily on its hind legs.

At least now the decision wasn't his to make anymore, Argis thought and replied "As you wish, my Thane."

He leaned his shield against the wall and walked over to the other man who had once more turned his attention to the maps, but when Argis stood next to him he looked up in surprise. "I didn't mean straightaway," Wulfryk said softly, giving his housecarl a friendly smile and continued "I'm sure you want to wash and change clothes, right?"

His guess was dead-on and Argis returned the smile tentatively. "Yeah, thanks."

When Wulf just grinned and waved him away, the housecarl felt the tension leave him gradually. It seemed his Thane had not suffered a radical change of personality overnight. Argis almost chuckled at the silly idea, and shook his head, uncertain about what had him worried mere moments ago.

He pulled his shirt off as he walked towards the bathroom, unaware of the fact that his Thane's eyes suddenly snapped up and the scrutiny of the other man's gaze.

Wulf was almost disappointed when Argis returned fully clothed, although his housecarl's flannel tunic was obviously a favourite, as it was worn threadbare. Despite his scars and damaged eye the guy was certainly easy on the eyes and there was no harm in looking.

Argis took the seat that his Thane kicked from under the Table and just managed to catch the open bottle that slid towards him.

"I'm afraid I ate the leftovers, but there's still plenty of mead left," Wulfryk joked, but the words had a different effect on the housecarl whose mien immediately changed to one of guilt and mortification.

By the Gods, it shouldn't be Argis' Thane eating scraps. The very thought was...outrageous. Now Argis chided himself for his stupidity. He had forgotten about his Thane when he had made dinner.

"My Thane, I am sorry," he began, conscious that there really was no justification for his error.

"Huh?" Wulf looked up in confusion. "What for? It's was delicious, though now I wish I haven't been stuffing myself with pastries all day long."

His obvious puzzlement made Argis stare at him in disbelief. "You haven't been Thane for very long, have you," he asked haltingly, amazed at how, well, _normal_ his Thane was.

Wulfryk's brows drew together, his expression darkening. "Actually, I – ," he began but never finished the sentence.

Their conversation came to an awkward stop that had Argis twirling the bottle of mead in his hands and his Thane staring intently at the map spread before them.

He had what? The housecarl couldn't help but wonder what had happened to cause this change in the mood, but when Wulfryk did not speak up again, Argis knew that it was up to him to break the ice. He knew he had overstepped a border and that he shouldn't have asked that last question, only it went against every experience he'd had that having a Thane did not mean having to put up with a complete and utter arsehole. The feeling was one of...surprise, but also immense relief.

Now that they weren't talking anymore, Argis dearly wished to take back his last words.

"So… ," he began instead, unsure whether he was entitled to the information he was about to ask "What did Jarl Igmund want? You have been at court for a long time."

Argis's Thane breathed out audibly and nodded, his bleak humour disappearing as quickly as it had come. He quite obviously welcomed the change of subject, though it also made him grimace, as if the memory of the meeting left a bad taste in his mouth.

Wulfryk decided to wash it down with some mead and stated dryly "He wanted to talk. And to introduce me to all the ‘people of importance’."

Argis winced in sympathy, thankful that his Thane had not insisted that he accompanied him.

"The Jarl also wants us to find and kill one band of the Renounced," Wulf said with a heavy sigh.

"Forsworn," Argis cut him short and quickly explained "They are the natives of the Reach who have declared war upon the Nords of Skyrim."

"Yeah, I know," Wulfryk drawled "I've been attacked by a bunch of small people in furry hats who dressed up as deer." His grin turned outright cocky when Argis guffawed at him and carried on "I didn't have any trouble sorting them out, but the Jarl and another high ranking commander –"

"Brigge," Arigs threw in and received an annoyed glare from having interrupted his Thane again.

"He seemed worried because they have some Ravenwitch with them," Wulfryk continued unfazed.

"Hagraven."

"That's what I said."

Argis opened his mouth to correct him, thought better of it and took a big gulp of mead instead. He did not miss the smirk that crossed his Thane's face.

"Got you." Wulf sounded smug when he proclaimed that "Now we're even."

"Anyway, we're supposed to clear out their camp and the Jarl has even lent me his maps, but all I could deduct from them is that this country is all but impassable."

Argis chuckled at his Thane's frustration and calmly enquired "Where is that camp?"

Wulfryk stabbed a small dot on the map and answered "Near someplace called ‘Reachwind Eyrie’." He looked up to see his housecarl scowl and asked "Is that bad?"

Argis had to tear his eyed away from the map and the tiny mark there and replied "Those ruins have been abandoned for years. If the Forsworn have moved to reclaim that country, then they're planning something and that's never good."

"Ruins?" Wulf sounded curious rather than worried.

"Yes. The Eyrie is, or rather was, a Dwemer tower that stands on the road between Markarth and Durshnikh Yal, an Orc stronghold on the border to High Rock."

"Sounds exciting," Argis' Thane stated, clearly impressed by his housecarl's knowledge of the country and quickly followed it up by "I didn't know High Rock was this close."

"Yeah," Argis mutter verged on grim.

Wulf noticed his aversion and asked "You don't like the Breton's country?"

The housecarl shrugged. He didn't dislike the country per se, but he couldn’t say the same of its inhabitants. "Them damned forsworn sons of goats crawled out from there and now they won't go back and it's up to us to make them."

Wulfryk laughed, but did not push the matter. "How do we get there?"

Argis carefully considered before replying; it had been some time since he had ventured in that direction. He relied on his memory rather than a drawing on a piece of leather, as travelling across the Reach was hazardous and the dangers of the mountains and gorges that lined the land could not be made out by simply looking at it. But Argis knew them and when he leaned over the map to show his Thane the safest and quickest route, the other man did the same.

Wulf snorted when they put their heads together and Argis' blond mane got in his face, tickling his nose.

"Sorry," the housecarl grunted and retrieved a leather band to tie his hair together, never stopping his instruction.

They spent the next hour planning their route, Wulf listening attentively to Argis' warnings and suggestions, knowing that it would be foolish to ignore them. This was the other Nord's home, not his.

They had covered most points when Argis realized that an important piece of information was missing. "When are we going?" he asked.

"We are supposed to leave tomorrow."

Argis paused and warily said "Tomorrow is Fredas."

Something in his voice made his Thane look up.

A few seconds passed before Argis quietly explained "We are planning a major assault. I should be there."

It did not mean that he wanted to abandon Wulfryk, but given the choice, he'd accompany his regiment without a second thought. A choice that he did not have as housecarl.

"I know." Argis was not sure what his Thane meant until the man resumed "I have asked the Jarl that we postpone this attack, but he was of the opinion that the offensive they are planning would be a great distraction."

His Thane had actually argued for Argis with the Jarl? That was...unexpected. And it made the housecarl much more willing to join him on this other mission. But he had to know one more thing. "Do you know who has command now?"

"A guy named Rolfrik."

"Rolf's a good man." When sober. But Argis trusted his second-in-command not to touch any drink when in the field. He and Lars might bicker like a married couple, but there was nobody Argis would rather have at his back than the pair of veterans.

"Alright." If the Jarl gave an order, he had to follow whether he liked it or not. "How many men are we taking with us? How big is that camp anyway?"

Wulf raised his eyebrows and quietly but without much joy he chortled "So far...it's you and me."

He- he couldn't be serious. Argis felt his stomach flip. Two of them against an entire camp?

"Are you fucking crazy!?" he barked at the man who was his superior. The words were out of his mouth before Argis had a chance to reconsider.

Next to him Wulfryk bristled at the sudden attack and retorted heatedly. "I've spent every last septim I had on this Hall! So unless you can pull a bunch of mercenaries from under your bed I don't see any other choice."

"Soldiers."

"What?" Wulf no longer sounded angry, just confused.

"Not mercenaries, my Thane. But I can get you as many soldiers as you need." If wouldn't be easy with so many gone, but he would find a way. There were always men willing to follow Argos' call to arms.

He felt his heartbeat slow down, felt himself become calm when he heard that his Thane was willing to take more men with them, just without the means to. He had been desperate, not out of his mind.

Wulf knew that he was staring at his housecarl and for once not because of the Nord's rugged good looks.

He had been Thane in Whiterun for quite a while, but though the guards had treated him with respect, none of them would have lifted a finger in such a situation. But one word from Argis and they had an army at their disposal? That was… useful, to say at least though it made him curious: just who was this guy who had been appointed as his housecarl? He'd have to find out. Not today though. It was growing late and by the looks of it they would have an early start tomorrow.

Wulfryk shook his head to get his thoughts sorted. "Twenty to thirty men," he said as an answer to Argis' earlier question. "Now what do we do about those soldiers?"

"I'll take care of it tomorrow morning, my Thane," the housecarl replied and rose, his Thane following suit.

They bid each other goodnight and Argis was already in his room and running over the list of things he would need to pack, when a loud bellow had him running to his Thane's room.

"ARGIS!"

The warrior found his Thane in the doorway, a lamp in one hand, the other pointing at something in the middle of the room "What the hell is this?!" Wulfryk spluttered.

Argis looked from his finger to the object he was pointing at. "This, my Thane, is a bed. Yours to be precise. You've been sleeping in it earlier."

"Sleeping, yes," Wulf grit his teeth. "I haven't _looked_ at it up till now." Inwardly he was fuming. "It's bloody hideous!"

"Yes, my Thane." Argis couldn't agree more. That reminded him of something important. "My Thane, you owe me eight hundred gold."

As a rule Argis could remain professional and composed in any situation, but seeing his Thane's look of mixed shock and despair, he had a hard time not to burst out laughing.

_Now_ they were even.


	57. HT

Argis rose before the sun's first rays lightened the horizon and decided against waking his Thane, dressed quietly and left Vlindrel Hall for the soldiers' barracks. As always he took his sword and shield with him, for leaving them behind felt wrong, as if he had misplaced a part of himself. Carrying his weapons had become a habit and even amongst friends his blade was never out of reach.

Outside, the pre-dawn air carried the first hint of winter, but with luck the weather should hold for a while longer. It seldom snowed in the lowlands this early in Frostfall, but by the month's end the slopes of the lower mountains surrounding Markarth would be covered in snow. Real snowstorms usually happened in the middle of Sun's Dusk and many mountain passes would be closed then with entire valleys cut off, until the snow set and the temperatures dropped so low they froze it solid, thus enabling people to walk on top. Compared to the other holds, winter arrived late in the Reach, but because of the proximity of the mountains it lingered for a long time; in shaded places fields of snow could last until Mid-Year and the high peaks of the Druadachs were always white.

Argis liked the winter. He never had, back when he had lived with his family in Gundar's Heim, but as a soldier the coming of the cold season meant a break from warfare. By the time Morning Star arrived, it would be so cold that nobody would leave their homes voluntarily, not even Nords. The Forsworn would be too busy being miserable and freezing to death in their camps to attempt anything and would bother no one until spring.

The housecarl yawned widely and stretched, wishing he was still in bed. Two days ago he had returned from the wilds and now it was right back in. Well, it couldn't be helped. He should just accept it and get going.

Silfir was high in the sky, the silver moon that was Secunda in the Trader's Tongue. Of Blóðlund, the bloody moon there was only a sliver visible from behind a mountaintop, but his smaller and much brighter brother illuminated the city sufficiently, its light dancing over and reflecting off Markarth's polished stone with enough intensity that Argis did not need to light a torch.

A couple of minutes later he arrived at the home of Ian, another high ranking officer whose company had returned yesterday, just in time for Brigge's to leave and raised the heavy brass knocker to rap on the door. There was a hollow _thump_ that rang loudly in the silence of the night and Argis repeated the action until he heard somebody stir behind the door.

"Who's there?" a female voice asked, thick with sleep and raised with annoyance at being woken up this early. Having gone through the same two days ago, Argis felt for her.

"It's Argis," the housecarl replied without explaining further.

Nothing happened for a short while and then he heard a bolt being slid to the side and the door opened a little. A tall, brunette woman appeared in the crack.

"Ian's asleep," she told him with a glower that did not at all suit her plain, careworn face.

"Then wake him up," was the warrior's curt suggestion.

"He just came back," she protested with a hint of desperation in her voice, "You can't take him away again!"

"I just need his help, Jenna," Argis placated the agitated wife with one hand raised that he ran over his brow. Gods, but he was tired himself. "It's important, and I'm not taking him anywhere."

He saw her give a small nod after some contemplation. "Wait here," she ordered and closed the door in his face.

Ian wasn't exactly pleased to see him either, but he listened to Argis' reasons without interrupting.

"Igmund is sending me out," the warrior explained quickly. "Unless I get more men it's my Thane and me against a camp; and I know Brigge can't spare any. I was hoping you could help me."

"Well, shit," the other man cursed. "You know we just got back and since most of the soldiers have some time off I can't order them to go with you."

"I know." Argis nodded his understanding, but did not relent. "Just help me find some willing to, I don't have much time." He did not have to ask a second time.

Ian disappeared for a moment to kiss his wife goodbye, pulled on a warm coat and boots before stepping outside and closing the doors to his home silently. "Alright," he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with excitement. "Let's go find you some bastards crazy enough to work when they could enjoy their free time."

They walked together and after a while Ian spoke up again. "I'd go with you, you know? Jenna will kill me, but I'm with you if there's nobody else." He sighed, looked away and murmured, almost too low for Argis to hear "Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. Getting married and all."

The housecarl patted his friend on the back and warily asked "But you do love her, right?"

"Well, yeah." The officer did not sound convinced himself. "I do love her," he stated more firmly, then proceeded "I just wish she'd understand why I can't be at home more. I belong out there, Argis, with my men. I can't sit by and do nothing while they are out there, fighting. Dying." He sighed heavily and continued "Jenna wants a family, she thinks I'd take care of a child if we had one, stay at home and be a good father and a husband. I can't do that and she won't listen when I tell her why."

Argis grunted in acknowledgement and chose not to comment. He'd heard stories like this one dozens of times. Only the names changed. Some warriors simply were not made for a quiet life or for retirement. Duty and devotion to their cause, the fight for the Reach, had driven countless families apart. It actually made the housecarl glad that he had no angry spouse to deal with.

'Just his Thane,' a traitorous thought whispered in the back of his mind and made him scowl.

The two men parted soon after, Argis heading for the right building and Ian for the left. They'd make better time if they split up. To the blond warrior's surprise there was a lit brazier in front of the barracks and a dark figure was cowering next to it.

"What are you doing at this time?" Argis asked the soldier. His thin face, pointy chin and watery eyes looked familiar, though he could not recall having seen him recently.

"Watching the sun rise," the man replied without looking his way. His leg was bouncing restlessly and he drummed his fingers on his knee rapidly. "This really is the only time to do it."

"Meining, was it?" the housecarl wanted to know, the memories returning slowly. It had been almost a decade since he had worked closely with Ian's soldiers, after all. "You are a scout." And a damned good one, if he remembered correctly.

"Aye." The fidgeting never stopped and the scout scratched his head, tapped his fingers against his mouth and gulped for air, sounding very much like he was having difficulty breathing or some sort of breakdown.

"You alright?" Argis enquired brusquely. "You look… tense." He was becoming edgy himself, just looking at the soldier.

"I don't like the city much," the other man confessed, rubbing his hands over his face now. "Too many people. Makes me nervous. Don't like being inside them walls, either. There's no way out," he whispered, his anxiety making his voice break.

Poor sod. The coincidence was exactly what Argis needed though. "I'm looking for good men willing to fight for their Thane," he said and offered "We could use a scout."

"You can count me in, then," Meining agreed readily and jumped to his feet. "I saw Dom yesterday; he looked about ready to kill something. His wife threw him out, Halof said it's for good t his time. Maybe he'd like to come too."

"Find him," Argis ordered. "And meet me here again."

"Will do." The scout was up and moving before he had finished, disappearing in the shadows without even the soft scuff of a leather boot against stone.

One volunteer already and he had not even had to make himself unpopular with a great many soldiers. Argis grinned tightly, threw open the doors to guard's quarters with a loud bang and shouted "UP!"

There was a moan and some cursing, a few people stirred while others slept on. Most of the bunks were empty, whoever had a family usually chose to spend time with relatives.

The reaction he got was rather disappointing. "I said UP, you lazy buggers!" the housecarl roared "There's Forsworn to kill!"

"Fuck off, Argis!" a sleepy voice slurred from the dark depths of the barracks.

The blonde warrior walked up to the complaining soldier and stood above him with his arms crossed. He saw the other flinch at his presence, though the soldier kept up his pretence of sleep for a while longer. Until Argis' kick broke one leg off the rickety bunk and send him sprawling on the floor.

The guard dropped the act instantly, got up in a fluid motion and held up his hands. "I'm up, I'm up!" she grumbled and Argis realized that contrary to his previous assumption it was no man. "Don't kick _me_ ," the woman whined, quickly followed by "What's in it for us?"

"Double pay," Argis told her. The gold for this mission came from his own funds, but then he was a wealthy man. "Can't guarantee any loot though. Our target's a small camp close to the Eyrie. What's your name, soldier?"

"Pike sir," she called out and gave a grin that missed a front tooth.

"Do you know anybody willing to join us?"

"Sure do, sir," she replied and roused one of her comrades. "Ya hear that, Digs? Argis needs some Forsworn put in the ground. Sounds like work that's right up your alley."

It did not take any more prompting to make the soldier get up. He looked old and his weathered face was heavily wrinkled and none of those lines came from smiling, of that Argis was sure. Nonetheless, he raised his brows. He had come across a lot of strange nicknames, but this one was new. "Digs?" he repeated. "How did you get that name?"

" 'Lend who Digs Graves' is too long when you need to shout it," the man replied with a rasp and a strange emptiness in his voice and eyes. "Twice I've been the only one to come back from cleaning out Forsworn camps. I'm no coward, mind you," he assured the housecarl. "Got the scars to prove it. Name's 'cause I buried all my friends – and my family before that." He paused before asking "You want to kill the goatspawn?" His hair and beard might have gone grey, but the way he gripped his axe and his mirthless smile left no doubt that he was more than ready for bloodshed. "You got the right man."

"Good." That was exactly whom Argis needed. He heard somebody call his name and motioned for the two soldiers to follow him out of the building where Meining was already back and wringing his hands.

"I got bad an' good news," the scout announced as soon as they came closer. "Dom's so drunk, he ain't goin' nowhere, but I found us somebody else."

"Who?" Argis asked, because he did not see anybody else.

"It's been a while." The words made the housecarl turn sharply and face the shadowed alleyway. Two figures detached themselves from the darkness. A stout warrior with a short, russet beard the colour of dried blood, close cropped hair and a Bihänder slung across his shoulder and his slightly taller, brown haired companion whose only visible weapons were a pair of matching fighting knives.

They were Gerimund and Iver, two veterans who had been a couple for as long as Argis had known them. And that was quite a time considering they had trained him back when he had not been competing for the position of a húskarl yet. Afterwards their dealings had been too few and too far apart. That they would join him now was a most pleasant surprise.

"Too damn long!" Argis agreed and allowed himself to be drawn into a rough hug that involved a lot back-pounding.

"Aye!" Gerimund affirmed.

Iver joined the talk, stating "We wouldn't want to pass up a chance to meet the Thane," with feigned nonchalance and a wink. He too clapped his old friend on the shoulder. "You've looked better," the remarked with a twist to his lips that was not amusement.

Argis shrugged. "I've looked worse," he countered.

"True."

Everything that might have come after this was cut short when Ian arrived with two more warriors in tow. "Sorry to disturb this reunion," he called out, not sounding apologetic at all and brusquely introduced the newcomers. "This are Jorri and Theryn." He pointed at each soldier in turn. "They're brothers and have been with me through hell and back."

Argis greeted them with a nod. Both men were clad in the typical attire of the city guard, though they did not look alike at all; Jorri was short for a Nord and had an impressive beard but no hair on top of his head. Theryn might have been good looking once upon a time, but now he sported a badly broken nose and burn scars across the left side of his face and neck.

They were nine now in total and with the element of surprise they could take on a number of enemies two to three times their size. Especially if their adversaries were as reckless and badly trained as most of the Reachmen usually were. The greatest danger was that hagraven, the housecarl knew.

Ian might not be private to this piece of information, yet he lingered and finally he asked the blond warrior in a serious voice "Do you still need me?"

"Thanks, Ian, but we should have no trouble clearing out that camp." Argis had a group of veterans on his side. Capable soldiers with years of experience. They would be fine. "You should enjoy being with your wife while you can," he told his friend. "Work on getting that child she wants."

"If it works this time, I'll name it after you!" Ian shot back and guffawed with laughter when Argis raised his hand in a very rude gesture. He turned to leave, but not before biding them "Good luck!"

"You too," Iver shouted after the retreating officer and everyone, even Meining, joined in the snickering.

"Right," Gerimund interrupted the merriment "Argis, why don't you tell us what's awaiting us?"

The laughter stopped immediately and all eyes turned on the Nord in their middle. "We're going to the old tower at Reachwind Eyrie," the warrior began. "After discussing the matter with Thane Wulfryk we have decided that it would be best to cover the distance as quickly as possible and then take a day to assess the situation, rest if necessary and come up with a plan for the attack. It's too early to settle on any tactics just yet," he admitted. "As to our target: it's a small to middle sized camp, warriors only and probably badly equipped. They have a hagraven with them, so don't expect this to be a walk in the park," Argis warned his listeners.

None of the soldiers flinched at the news, but there was a look of dismay on the faces of some and somebody – probably Pike – spat at the ground. Digs just kept stroking his axe, like he couldn't wait to bathe it in Forsworn blood.

"These Forsworn have moved in almost without us noticing which makes me believe they are escorting the hagraven," the housecarl continued "Probably to one of their main encampments in the east, maybe even the one Brigge wants to cleat out. They will protect her. They will die. And I will hand out two hundred Septims extra to the one who brings me the witches head." He looked around at the grim but determined faces. "Any more questions?"

"I'm all ready," the scout threw in right after the housecarl had finished talking "So is there anything else you need done?"

"See Cedran about some mules and the quartermaster; we'll need supplies for ten days, tops," Argis ordered after some though. It was one less thing he would have to worry about.  

"Now, the rest of you, get your shit together. We meet at the gates two hours past sunup."

Argis did not wait for them to agree, but he was nonetheless pleased to hear a chorus of 'Ayes' behind his back. He had turned away already, heading back for his home. His Thane needed to be woken and informed of the progress his housecarl had made and there was still the important matter of breakfast. As if in answer to his thoughts, Argis felt his stomach rumble.

He looked up. Without him noticing it, the sky had turned from a deep, inky black into a dull gray. A dense blanket of clouds covered the sky and would probably hide the sun from view, but dawn was at hand. The bakeries were open by now and Argis stepped into a small shop where he purchased several white buns, fresh from the oven. By the time he was standing in front of the doors of his home and searching for the key, the horizon was bathed in a warm, golden light.

The interior of Vlindrel Hall was gloomy by comparison and the first thing Argis did was light a fire in the hearth. It was crackling merrily within a few minutes and he was rummaging around in the pantry. Any food that would spoil he'd take with him. There wasn't much, only what he had bought before his Thane's arrival. Everything else would last. Argis' gaze fell on the basket with eggs. They had eaten scrambled eggs yesterday morning, but he did not want them to go bad in their absence. It would take weeks to get the smell out of his house.

Omelette it was, then. He quickly peeled and cut some potatoes into small squares, threw them in a pot full of boiling water and hacked up an onion for roasting.

Cooking always reminded him of his mother. Argis had used to help her out in the kitchens; his father had enough helpers with his two older brothers and his sister. Ivanna though could always use the aid, if only because she could trust him to keep away his younger siblings from the red hot coals of the oven while she was otherwise occupied.

That made Argis think about his Thane and he felt worry gnaw at his insides. The man was his responsibility now. In a few days he would know what kind of a warrior Wulfryk was. What kind of a leader. Whether they fought well together and whether the guy understood tactics or even possessed a shred of common sense. He seemed capable for sure, but adventurers were often loners. It was not his skill with a sword that the housecarl questioned – though he had to prove himself in that regard as well – but his ability and willingness to work as a team.

Argis guessed he should wake his Thane up. The doors to the bedroom were open and for some reason that made him uncomfortable. He was reluctant to enter somebody else's private space, especially since that somebody was asleep, knowing that it would set off some of his own defences if their positions were reversed. So, he knocked on the door.

Nothing happened. From the doorway Argis could see that Wulfryk was fast asleep with his head partially buried under his pillow. Apparently nobody had ever explained to him how to use one. He didn't so much as stir when the housecarl called out "My Thane!"

The warrior entered warily, his tread light and approached the bed. Why he was being silent when he actually wanted to wake the guy up he could not tell. It seemed ridiculous and he let out an annoyed huff, bent down and shook the sleeping man's shoulder. He was not being deliberately rough but neither was it gentle and he did not miss that Wulf's hand went for his knife even before his eyes were fully open. Argis jerked his hand back; he did not fancy being stabbed in the least, but in a way the reaction was reassuring, convincing him that he was indeed dealing with a seasoned fighter.

"It's morning, Thane," Argis greeted him politely when Wulfryk's eyes focused on the blond man standing above him.

"Uh-huh," was all the response the housecarl received, along with an unhappy groan and a rather filthy glare.

Pretending he did not notice the last he turned around and marched back into the kitchens where the potatoes were just about done and needed to be taken out of the water before they fell to pieces. The onion was sizzling in the pan while Argis whipped the eggs and poured the batter in too, along with the potatoes and pieces of ham. He added finely chopped chives and a slice of spicy cheese to each omelette. He had four in total and along with the bread and some butter they would make for a hearty meal. _Now, this was the proper way to start a day._

Speaking of, where was his Thane? A good quarter of an hour had passed and he had not shown up. Argis paused to listen, but there was no sound coming from the bedroom. He sighed, frustrated that his food would cool now and got up again.

Wulfryk was asleep, that's where he was.

He had managed to turn around though and the covers had fallen away to reveal his bare back. Argis ground his teeth. He could see the scar high on Wulf's right shoulder. From their nightly run-in he knew that it had a twin on the front. Argis recognized an arrow wound when he saw it. It wasn't the only injury his Thane had sustained, although surviving those wasn't going to help him now.

Not only was Argis' Thane a slob, but a lazy one at that. Fuckin' fabulous. If any of his soldiers showed such lack of discipline, he'd have them working double shifts and without any food, but that was not something he could do to his superior, although he was tempted to.

"My Thane, it's –," Argis began.

"Morning, I know," a rough voice interrupted him, though Wulfryk did not bother to raise his head. "You know what else? I detest mornings. I'm sure the only reason the Gods invented such a thing as a 'morning' was to torture me," he complained. "And to keep the afternoon and night from bumping into each other," Wulf added after a short pause.

Suddenly though he raised his head, alert as he had not been before, inhaled deeply and grinned. "Is that breakfast I smell?"

All happy and amiable now that there was food ready.

Argis raised a hand to point a finger in his face. "You have two minutes and then I'm eating your portion." He turned on his heel and walked back to the dining table.

Wulf made it in approximately twenty seconds, give or take a few. They did not talk through the first half of their meal, the only sounds the clink of the cutlery and Wulf's yawns.

"Did you pack?" Argis enquired at last to put an end to the silence and because he half feared the answer. It made him downright forget the proper form of addressing his Thane.

The other man nodded though, finished chewing and said "There's something I wanted to ask you: Should I take a pot with me and a pan – those sorts of things? It's pointless to lag around two of everything."

It _was_ a good idea to share. Argis shook his head. "Nah. I've got it covered. Take only what you need, it's going to be a long walk."

"If you say so, Sunshine." Wulf gifted his housecarl with one of his lopsided grins to take the sting out of the words. "What about a tent?" he wanted to know next.

The oiled leather was heavy, as were the hooks and ropes that were necessary to pitch it. Those were some forty pounds that Wulf would be happy to leave behind, if possible. "I got one, but with a big guy like you it'll be very comfy," he teased and it did not escape his notice how his fellow Nord grew tense at the words. "So I thought I'd leave that behind as well," he carried on, slightly confused and poked at his food. "Unless you mind sharing."

"I do." The answer was curt and the sheer honesty of it stung more than it should.

Apparently, Argis did not want him around. Talos' balls, but Lydia had been easier to win over. And decidedly more jubilant with her position as housecarl.

"Okaaay." Wulf almost winced with how defensive he sounded, but then he had not expected that Mister-it's-an-honour-to-serve-you-my-Thane considered him to be a burden, one that he had no intention of putting up with, or carrying, as that pretty housecarly phrase went.

Especially since the last two days had let him believe that he was on his way to befriend the somewhat surly warrior.

The clank of a fork being put down made him look up. Argis ran a hand over his eyes, rested his chin in his hand and finally said "Look, I didn't mean it like that." It sounded somewhat like an apology and Wulf was usually willing to listen to those. I am –," the blond Nord broke off and corrected himself "I was a commander here and as such I don't get chummy with my soldiers. I need them to do what I say when I say it. I'm not friends with most of them. We don't get _close_." He sighed heavily. "And it's been a while since I had to work with somebody who was not under my command."

"Ummm..." Wulf wasn't exactly sure what Argis had attempted to tell him, except for the fact that his housecarl preferred to be and work on his own. It brought them no closer to finding any solution. "So… ," he prompted, one eyebrow raised. "Tent?"

"I got one," Argis muttered, staring off into the fire of the hearth. "Big enough for two." He sounded hoarse, like it was some great confession.

A subtle shift in his housecarl's demeanour told Wulf that the topic was closed now. He did not bring it up again, but he wondered why his...acquaintance...looked like he had developed a bad case of toothache all of a sudden. A heartbeat passed and Argis' expression became flat and unreadable once more. It bothered Wulf, because that's something he was very good at as a rule: reading people. He couldn't tell much about Argis though, except when he was annoyed – with him - but otherwise the warrior was impassive and unresponsive; his face vacant of the emotions that usually ghosted over the features of others. Professional. Indifferent, almost.

Only, he wasn't. He had not been yesterday, or the day before. Without his heightened sense of smell that came from carrying the beastblood and careful study of the man's body language, Wulf wouldn't have picked up on his housecarl's moods. He had been slightly nervous at their meeting, relaxed afterwards and wearily apprehensive on the day after. But now the mask was firmly in place and there was no telling what the man behind it thought or felt.

Stewing over it wasn't going to help. Wulf raised his fork and pointed at Argis' neglected omelette and asked sweetly "Do you plan on eating that?"

"Yes." It came out in a low rumble. "Keep your hands off."

A warning, if Wulf had ever heard one; and he was only left to wonder whether Argis meant the food or their sleeping arrangements.

He knew about facades. Probably better than most. It would be a challenge to disassemble this one, to get behind the carefully erected barrier. It would be something to occupy him, to pass the time with, even if their relationship never evolved to the point of friendship.

Which would be a pity. Up to now he had genuinely liked his housecarl. He still did. Argis was struggling with something and for once he did not pry.

They finished their meal without any more talking, put the dishes in water and then each man left for his room. To dress, though it really was more to comfortably make up their hair. Despite the recent tension, Wulf had to chuckle at the thought. They were Nords, indeed. Since he himself lacked his countrymen's prejudices against magic and other races he had to make up for it with something, Wulf thought while applying his white war-paint.

He liked to braid his hair at the temples and join the two strands at the back of his head, Argis had two straight braids on either side of his face, the rest of his blonde mane he pulled back and secured it with a thin band of leather.

That after two days he knew his housecarl's favourite hairstyle was disconcerting at last and it told him that he had spent too much time staring at the guy, though he had tried to keep his ogling as covert as possible. Not because he was afraid to be discovered, but because he was not sure of the reaction he would get.

Judging by Argis' aversion to so much as share a tent it wouldn't be good, though truth be told he did not know much about his housecarl at all. Only that he had not been born in Markarth but had spent his whole life in the Reach, that he had served in the army under Ulfric Stormcloak where he had distinguished himself and earned the honorary addition 'The Bulwark'. He was four and thirty, not quite five years older than Wulfryk and had been a housecarl for six years.

He was drop-dead gorgeous, exactly meeting Wulf's taste in lovers, scars and damaged eye notwithstanding.

He also favoured men.

Or at least he had had a relationship with a guy that he broke up with or something, Halof, the innkeep had mentioned it but Wulf hadn't been really listening any more at that point.

With a start he realized that he was dawdling, fantasizing about the man who was at the other end of the corridor.

"Argis?" he called out, but then decided to just walk over, getting his first glimpse of Argis' room, which was simply furnished with no decorations. It was also meticulously neat to the point where it did not actually look lived in.

"What!?" came the housecarl's curt answer.

He was in the middle of fastening a cuirass, the breastplate of which was made of steel with fur to soften the edges and a lower part to protest his gut and thighs that was leather. There was also a heavy belt of plated mail for additional protection to the abdomen lying on the bed.

"You've got a strap twisted," Wulf said and stepped closer to the slightly taller warrior, his hands going to the leather that rubbed against the other man's neck, who could very well have adjusted it himself, but the opportunity suited the dark haired Nord just fine.

He noticed the way the other man went rigid at their proximity, it would have been hard not to. It must have taken much self-control of him not to push his Thane away. And he still wasn't sure whether it was personal or just the invasion of his space in general that set Argis off.

"There, that's better," Wulf stated with feigned cheerfulness and patted the blond warrior's shoulder when he righted the strap, receiving a grunt in answer. They were close, closer than necessary and Wulfryk used it to smile up at the other man briefly, then retreated as if nothing had happened. He did not think that Argis had twitched a single muscle the entire time, standing stiffly and almost at guard. His breathing was somewhat heavy, but there were no other tells.

Except for the way his gaze lingered. He did not tear it away quite quickly enough and Wulf thought he had his answer.

There was something burning in his housecarl's amber eye. Interest, maybe?

He had an amazing eye colour, Wulf realized, one he had only ever seen in the great maned cats that prowled Elsweyr's dry savannahs. He could get lost in it, though he did not allow himself to, leaning against a cupboard instead.

"Do I need armour straight away?" Wulfryk asked, back to talking business.

Argis snapped back astonishingly fast and he was not the slightest bit flustered when he explained "We will be in well patrolled country for the first two days, but after that I wouldn't risk going without it, Thane." They both knew that there was no armour on Nirn that would save them if an archer or a mage got lucky. It was a risk one learned to live with.

But..."I'm good at avoiding being stabbed by pointy things," Wulf declared haughtily.

"Yeah?" Argis muttered, going back to fastening his armour and, by all appearances, ignoring his Thane. Not _that_ good, judging by his scars. 

"Yeah." Wulf didn't like being ignored much. "Unless I'm having sex," he threw in saucily and ambled back into his own, not waiting to see the look on his housecarl's face, though he was sure it was delicious.

He could feel the warrior's eyes drilling into his back. It was silent enough in the other room that he knew Argis had foregone dressing in favour of just staring at him.

Then, once he was out of sight and after a long moment of nothing there was a soft snort, followed by quiet laughter. It was low enough that Argis probably believed that his Thane couldn't hear him, but Wulfryk's senses weren't exactly human in this regard and he did.

'He should laugh more,' the Nord thought, because it was quite a lovely sound. Deep and gravelly, but mostly just happy, without any of the reserve from before.

Wulf wished to see Argis like this when he was around the other man. 'One day,' he swore, but in the meantime he deemed it safe to assume he had just scored a point in their small, implicit game and could not keep a silly grin from appearing on his face.


	58. HT

Dressed and ready to go, Wulf slung his pack over one shoulder and, leaving his bed the exact shape of messy that he liked, left his room. He arrived in the hall just as somebody knocked on the front door and pulled it open - to the surprise of the caller.

"Yes?"

The courier had apparently expected somebody else judging by his startled expression, but he quickly recovered. "I have a delivery for Argis, does he still live here?"

"Sure," Wulf answered with a smile, glad that it did not concern him. He'd been edgy after his escape from Whiterun, but as far as he could tell he had covered his tracks well enough that he had not been followed. The only thing left to do now that he was no longer getting by with the one or other odd job, was to hope that nobody would make the connection between the sudden disappearance of one Thane and the astonishingly fast rise of another.

"I'll get him."

Wulf saw the courier nod with gratitude, obviously happy that he would not have to search the city for one man and went back inside. His housecarl looked up from fastening his belt and the various weapons attached to it when his Thane poked his head through his door for the second time.

"There's a delivery for you," Wulf announced and watched Argis' brows furrow before he nodded his thanks and brushed by him.

 

xxxx

 

Argis did not expect to receive a package, but maybe his Ma was worried he was starving himself and had sent him her famous honey and oat cookies, or perhaps his Da or one of his siblings had a request, something they needed from the city. While unanticipated, it was hardly unusual for him to receive mail.

The housecarl recognized the courier from former visits. The man looked nervous, tapping his foot and staring down the cliff as if he was afraid it was going to swallow him. The heights in Markarth could be overwhelming if one was not used to them. Argis cleared his throat so as not to startle him and received a packet wrapped in ordinary brown oiled leather to protect the contents from rain.

"Do you get anything?" he asked the Nord who had made the delivery.

"No. It's all paid for," the other man answered but grinned happily when the housecarl pressed a coin into his hand nonetheless and with a bow he took his leave, no doubt to spend the money at the Silver-Blood Inn. Running after others had to be thirsty work.

Argis put the package down on the long table he and his Thane had eaten breakfast at earlier and sliced open the cords holding it together. Several envelopes spilled out, the paper thick and heavy and he knew whom they were from even before he had opened a single one.

"Anything important?" Argis' Thane called, leaning against the wall of the hall and reminding the housecarl that they needed to get going.

The blond warrior sorted through the correspondence briefly and shook his head. "Just letters. From an old friend."

"Are we going?" Wulfryk asked impatiently. "If we run late I'm blaming you," he added.

"Yeah," Argis grunted in answer and tore his eyes away from the staple of parchment. "Just need to grab my pack."

He did and, slinging a small axe suitable as a backup weapon and for throwing through its ring on his left hip, headed after his yawning Thane into an overcast morning. On the way out Wulfryk managed to stumble over the doorstep and, heart stopping, Argis already saw him tumbling down the long stairway and breaking his neck. That would be awkward to explain to the Jarl. Somehow his Thane caught himself in time and with a drunken stagger just as the housecarl managed to grab his elbow to keep him from falling.

"Handrail technology," Wulfryk stated with an accusingly raised finger. "You crazy Markarth people should really look into it."

Argis let the remark pass and watched his Thane's step closely until they reached the safety of the ground. The housecarl followed, running over the details of their mission in his head until a slurred shout ripped him out of his thoughts and made his head snap up.

"Hey!"

It was Yngvar, bleary-eyed and out after a night of drinking.

"Don't kill off this one!" He slapped his thigh and laughed like it was the best joke in the world.

Argis refrained from bashing the man's nonexistent brains out against the wall of the inn and turned his back on the drunk. Like too many other people the thug was on the payroll of the Silver-Bloods and he wasn't going to start a feud without a damned good reason. Besides, he might have the opportunity to do just that, legitimately and in front of a crowd of spectators, in the yearly spring tournament if Yngvar had the balls to compete against him.

The housecarl noticed the curious sideways look his Thane was giving him.

"What was that about?" the dark-haired warrior asked with a strange, reserved, cheer.

"Nothing," Argis grunted back. He guessed his Thane had a right to know, but if the man was enough of a snoop to make enquiries before having met him, he could damn well figure it out on his own. By asking anybody in the city, for instance. Half of them would be thrilled to share the story, embellished to the point of where Argis had probably bludgeoned Bjorn to death himself and bathed in the man's blood.

They passed through the gates where the guards straightened when they saw the pair and wished them both success. Argis was happy to see that all of their group were present and ready to go. In fact, there was one man extra who did not belong.

"Lars," Argis addressed the redhead who was sitting on his pack, chewing on a piece of bread and dried meat. "What are you doing here?"

"Shirkin' duty," the soldier replied through a full mouth and grinned like it was some joke only he could understand.

The housecarl clapped him on the shoulder in greeting and the other man rose, wrapping up his food and putting it away. Argis wearily asked, "Does Rolf know?"

"Sure, he was tha one ta sign me off." His friend laughed at the housecarl's vexed expression and poked him in the chest. Ya need someone ta watch ya back," Lars stared and shouldered his pack, tightening the straps.

Argis chuckled at his friends' scheming and shook his head, looking around. Gerimund and Iver were talking quietly, the brothers Kjald and Theryn had a mule each, Lend was staring into the distance with his eyes shielded by one hand and Pike kept yawning widely every few seconds.

Meining was riding circles atop a thin horse with cow hocks that looked like it had interbred with a goat at some point. The scout stopped his mare, patted her neck and answered the housecarl's unasked question. "Beauty's all mine."

Next to Argis Wulfryk rubbed his hands together and looked at the warrior beside him with expectation. "So. Where are we going?"

"You are our leader," Argis replied formally, hoping to set an example for his men. Better the soldiers learn early to respect his Thane, or there'd be consequences.

"I am," the dark-haired Nord replied happily. "I just need someone to tell me where I'm supposed to lead us."

Argis stared at the man while Lars was shaking with laughter and Iver snickered behind his hand and leaned closer to his partner to whisper something while the other man nodded.

"Come on, Sunshine," Wulfryk prompted, indifferent to the reactions of varying degrees of shock and amusement around him. "Throw me a bone. I haven't learned that map by heart yet. Salvius' Farm, where's that?"

"Just down the road, my Thane."

Argis' Thane extended his hand, motioning for the warrior to go in front. "Lead the way, oh fearless housecarl."

 

xxxx

 

Wulf knew he had caused a minor stir with his little show, but what had the others thought? That he would stride at the head of their little procession and maybe wave a banner? Even if he had wanted to do that, Wulf might know where he had to go, but not how to get there.

At least he got them to quit staring and move on.

Their scout trotted ahead, shouting back that, "You'll hear me whistlin'".

A grim, elderly soldier raised a hand in farewell at the statement, and in the next minute Wulf watched the rider disappear down the road. He took his place somewhere in the middle of the group of people and was quickly forgotten as everyone around appeared to try their hardest to ignore the Thane in their midst. Wulfryk took the opportunity to observe them and listen to the soldiers talk.

Argis marched in front, but he was cold and distant all throughout the day. The housecarl kept to himself, only engaging in conversation when a question was directly asked of him. Wulf also noticed that he behaved different towards some of the warriors. He seemed most friendly with Lars, though Gerimund and Iver were a close second. Argis was also clearly familiar with Pike and painfully exerted to treat his Thane with the deference befitting Wulfryk's position. It was all the more obvious because of the gaping lack of any foundation to base it on.

A light drizzle began in the afternoon and hoods were pulled up and conversations died down as heads bowed. The only one whose spirits were not dampened in the slightest was Argis' redheaded friend and after a while Wulf found himself walking with the soldier in the rear. Lars was more than pleased by the opportunity to chat, though he had to repeat himself often when Wulf did not understand his dialect, which was more pronounced than most other Reachmen's. When the dark haired warrior said so and suggested he explain some particularly incomprehensible phrase in the Trader's Tongue, the soldier looked at him like he had asked him to take a leap off the cliff.

"Ya should hear Argis speak Málforn," Lars stated. "Even I can't follow that."

He then proceeded to teach Wulf everything the warrior needed to know about the Reach and its inhabitants and especially the fine differences between the Reachmen, the Forsworn and the Reachlfolk that were ignored by the rest of Skyrim, but of critical importance around here.

The Reachfolk were the Reaches inhabitants, while the Reachmen were the natives, originally of Breton descent, thought they had heavily interbred with the Nord settlers and in some cases even with Imperials and Orcs. While it was technically correct that most of the Nords living in Markarth were of mixed blood, it was not wise to say so if one was fond of one's teeth. In Markarth, many of the natives dwelled in the warrens and did the dirtiest jobs, and no self-respecting Nord wanted to associate themselves with them.

The reason was because after the taking of Markarth and succeeding Ulfric's liberation, many of the Reachmen became the Forsworn, a bunch of fanatics also called the Madmen of the Reach who thought the hold wasn't big enough and that the Nords and the Empire had to leave their homeland to its 'true sons and daughters'. They attacked travellers, caravans and Nord settlements and even sometimes entered the city in disguise and assassinated citizens, thus making the Nords' – who, as previously mentioned, were in all instances the Reachfolk and quite often, at least partially Reachmen – lives difficult.

Lars actually managed to say all of that with a straight face and in a tone of absolutely sincerity and by the end of the lecture Wulf's head was spinning. These people were crazy. Wulf should have listened to the old soldier back in Rorikstead when he had cautioned him against going to Markarth. Oh, well. Couldn't be helped now.

When Wulfryk saw an opportunity, he directed the talk to their travelling companions and the man next to him was happy to share all he knew about them.

"You know Argis well?" Wulf asked eventually, because he had noticed Lars had left out the one man he was most interested in. Never mind who Pike's sister was married to.

The redhead laughed like it was a great joke. "Ya could say so," he chuckled. "There's three of us; Rolf shoots 'em, Argis knocks 'em over with his shield and then I stab 'em. We're a team," he announced merrily and with a flippancy that spoke of long years of friendship.

"You've been with him long?"

"Aye," Lars declared proudly. "None longer. Seventeen years ago, I was tha first ta sign up with Markarth's rising hero. Thought maybe some o' tha glory would rub off on me."

"Did it work?" All the answer he needed was in the redhead's smile.

"Sure did. It don't hurt with tha ladies when ya say ya're with tha Bulwark, either. Course, we had a bit o' a rough time couple o' years back, but… ," Lars shrugged. "Guess we was in for a down. Too much glory and fame. Don't tell Argis I said so, alright?"

Wulf smiled and nodded and did not interrupt while Lars counted out all of his housecarl's memorable deeds, the last but not greatest being, "Killed a sabrecat all by his self."

Wulf had seen the claw Argis was wearing against his chest. "That true," he asked the warrior who had been listening in on them talk.

Argis shrugged. He wasn't bragging, but he wasn't denying anything, either.

Meining came back roughly an hour later with a basket full of apples and walnuts that he distributed amongst the soldiers. They had heard the scout's whistles throughout the day, though they had rarely caught sight of him. "The way is clear," Meining announced, reporting half to Argis and half to Wulf who was cracking nuts while Lars peeled the apples that had spots. "Met a patrol bound for the Falls. And I found us a nice place to camp."

Their designated campsite had a brook and a copse of trees to shield them from sight and a dark circle of scorched earth in the middle that indicated they were not the first ones to seek shelter here. Wulf surprised Argis by lending a hand in pitching their tent and chopping some wood for the fire Pike was lighting. Between the ten of them all the work got finished within half an hour and then there was nothing else to do but sit and stir she spoons in their empty bowls.

Wulf cast a look back the way they had come, but Markarth had long ago disappeared behind rolling hills. This was not country the warrior wanted to get lost in; as far as he could see they had not even followed a track up here, yet they were only one day away from the city. Then Argis announced that dinner was ready and Wulf's stomach reminded him that breakfast had been too long a time ago.

 

xxxx

 

Argis dished out the food and ate his portion in silence, trying to enjoy the peace of the evening, but without much success. The mist that had hung low through most of the day had dispersed and they even got to see the sun set in vivid colours of orange and pink. Blind to the sight before him, Argis' thoughts all swirled around the man in their midst.

He had no idea what to do with the guy. Wulfryk appeared to be getting friendly with Lars, of all people. Argis reluctantly pondered whether his friend would need a reminder that the man was a Thane and had to be treated as such, but decided against it. They appeared to be getting along well – better, in fact, than Argis and Wulfryk.

Maybe later Argis could question Lars on what he had found out. Happy with the temporary solution, the housecarl leaned back and watched the stars overhead twinkle into life. Around him, his comrades ate and talked and Iver started a dice game that was soon joined by Lend, Pike and Theryn. The mules were tethered to two small, twisted juniper trees and while Meining's mare was neither hobbled nor tied down, it seemed reluctant to stray far from her rider's tent anyway. Perhaps because the scout was feeding her what apples remained in the basket.

"Do we divide watch between two or three?" Kjald asked, hunkering down beside the housecarl who noticed the other conversations around him dying down as curious heads turned to listen.

"Two," Argis said. "And I'll take the first." Nobody contested his decision. They knew that as a leader he always insisted on facing danger and discomforts first.

"I'll take second."

Argis sat up to see his Thane, who was currently helping himself to seconds, give him a diffident smile.

The housecarl nodded and let the others work out a schedule between them. He approved of his Thane's commitment and silently prayed that the man was up to it. He had had no difficulties keeping up with them today and he moved lightly under his pack like he was used to heavier weights. Argis felt the first spark of grudging respect. He had figured his Thane for a layabout after how difficult it had been to get him out of bed, but he had pitched in as much as the next man when it had come to the few chores that had to be done around the camp. Argis only hoped that the warrior had been worn out by Igmund's court session and that he would not have to pull Wulfryk out of the bedroll by his feet.

In time the soldiers turned in by pairs and a heavy but peaceful hush fell over their camp.

The hours passed slowly without anything happening. Mules and horse were grazing calmly and in the distance an owl hooted. Argis now and then added some wood to the fire to keep it burning, but generally sat with his back to it, staring into the distance. He usually kept watch further away from it – because a back lighted silhouette was an invitation for archers, but they were close enough to Markarth that he did not fear an ambush. Due to the terrain small bands of Forsworn could get close to the capital, but three days in each and every direction were well enough patrolled that it was nigh impossible for the enemy to slip past the soldiers. He himself had seen to that.

Eventually the night grew cold and the housecarl pulled out his white fur cloak and wrapped it around himself. Soft snores were coming from several tents, and he walked around them to stay alert. Argis patted Meining's mare on the nose when she came over to nose at his pockets. Realizing that he had no treats for her the horse eventually went back to grazing and the housecarl continued his round. He almost walked past it, but stopped next to the tent that was his own.

Argis did not know if his Thane had offered to take second watch so they would not have to suffer any more awkwardness whilst pretending to rest or if there was some other reason, but he was grateful for the gesture either way. Too bad it only worked once. He could not stand sentry every night, or he would fall asleep when the time came for them to fight the Forsworn.

In addition it would be a blatant insult to his Thane. Maybe...he should talk to him. It had worked back in Markarth, after all. Shor's bones, if Wulfryk had suffered a whole day with Lars, whose chattiness could wear down even his best friends, without complaint, he could not be a bad guy.

 _Tomorrow_ , Argis decided.

When the moons had wandered a good bit across the sky the housecarl knelt to open the tent flap and shook awake the man sleeping inside. Wulfryk snapped up at the sudden touch, much like he had back in Vlindrel Hall.

"My Thane," Argis said quietly, "It's your turn."

The dark haired Nord groaned and buried his face in the furs before pushing up and climbing out of the tent. He fished out his boots and shook an opportunistic spider out of one before putting them on, stomping his feet against the ground. The warrior also fetched his cloak and drank deeply out of his waterskin.

Argis watched as Wulfryk folded his cloak a couple of times, and laid it atop a low stone before he sat down upon it. He fed a few more twigs to the fire, splaying his fingers to warm them before he blinked up at Argis through his dishevelled hair that he roughly combed into place with his fingers. "Keep me some company, would you?"

"As you wish, my Thane." Argis squatted down beside him on his heels because the ground had become wet with dew.

He had been hit on enough times to know that playfully assessing look he pretended not to notice. Either this was another test or his Thane wanted to get into his pants. Or maybe the guy was just a flirt by nature; he seemed the kind with his overt advances back when they had been home. It was understandable; flirting was something you did for fun, to see if you could talk someone into bedding you.

Wulf was generous with his smiles and there was no denying that he was attractive, even more so when his voice was rough with sleep and had dropped into a pleasant, slow rumble. And he knew it.

Under different circumstances Argis might be interested.

"So," Wulfryk broke the silence before Argis could get too hung up on that flash of sentiment. "Why's it called a hagraven? It's not actually-?"

"Yes," Argis answered with a grimace. "Yes it is."

"Oh. Yuck." Argis' Thane pulled a face. They were both speaking in hushed tones so as not to wake the others or make too much noise. Sound carried in the mountains.

"That about covers it," the blond warrior chuckled quietly. "Ugly as Mauloch's warty ass and smell worse than his farts. You'll know one when you see it. Whatever happens, don't freeze. Keep moving. Hagravens have claws like razors, but they can't get past steel; their magic however will fry you on the spot."

"Don't get myself blown up," Wulf repeated and nodded. "Anything else?" His words were distorted by a lengthy yawn that he covered with his hand.

Argis shook his head. "Bury a sword in them and they die just like everybody else," he advised with a wry twitch of his lips.

When Wulfryk did not immediately answer, the housecarl believed their conversation to be over, but then his Thane suddenly asked, "Where do they come from?"

Argis' knowledge of history hardly outstanding, but he had learned the one or other thing during his training. Understanding your foes was the key to success. "They've always been in the Reach," he began. "Forsworn revere them as holy, because they can turn a man into a Briarheart. Umm, those are powerful mages or warriors and lead the Forsworn. Also, they're not entirely alive."

"All I know is they're not born, they're made. Some ritual which involves Daedra and a human sacrifice and I don't really want to know more about it. Uh...the Briarhearts, that is," Argis clarified, "Not the hagravens. I know that I don't want to know where _they_ come from." He felt the rush of blood to his cheeks as he stumbled over the words, glad for the darkness. Any flush that was visible he could attribute to the heat of the fire.

Wulfryk did not appear to notice. "Apparently ugly is not a deterrent to getting laid," he stated wryly.

"Fuck," Argis barked out a surprised laugh. There was something right off the top of his list of things he did not want to think about before going to sleep.

"Not that I'd know," Wulf added in afterthought and grinned.

Argis snorted and poured some water into a cup, drank it. The only retort that came to his mind was either insulting and though the mood was relaxed he did not want to risk spoiling it by banter giving the wrong impression or a downright invitation into his bedroll. Which was not happening; now or ever.

"What's Málforn?" Wulfryk asked out of the blue.

"Why do you ask?"

Argis' Thane shrugged. "Lars said you spoke it."

"I don't speak Málforn," the housecarl bristled, but when his reaction was only met with an uncomprehending stare, he elaborated, "I grew up not far from Markarth, but the place was so out of the way, you'd think it was on the other side of the Reach. It's a small community. We speak differently there. I didn't think anything of it until I moved to the capital. Truth is, our dialect is almost identical to the Old Tongue."

"So-?"

"Málforn is used by the Forsworn."

Wulfryk shrugged like he did not see where the problem was. "It's not a bad thing to understand what your enemies are saying."

"No," Argis agreed, relieved that this was not an issue with his Thane. He was not from the Reach, but still. "But it's not wise to advertise it, either."

"I can keep a secret or two," the dark haired warrior replied with a conspiratorial wink.

"Ain't much of one, but – thank you."

Wulf yawned in answer and shook his head like he was trying to shake the last traces of sleep. "I'm awake now," he declared.

_Yes, but can you stay that way?_

Argis rose and stretched his legs, feeling the prick of tiny needles in his knees from crouching too long. He was about to turn and disappear into his tent, when he noticed that his Thane only had a shirt on and a sleeveless vest of leather; hardly clothes fit for late autumn. The housecarl draped his mantle over the other man's shoulders.

"Here. It gets cold in the morning hours." And he did not want to be woken in the middle of the night.

Wulfryk ran his fingers through the thick, spotted fur and whistled softly when he recognized what animal it had once belonged to. "Is this the same one that's lost its claws to you?" His finger briefly tangled in the leather cord around Argis' neck, before letting go again.

"No." Argis straightened and put the claw back into his shirt. He had never noticed it had slipped out.

He saw no reason for his Thane's amusement when the other Nord wished him "Sweet dreams."

 

xxxx

 

Wulf looked after the other warrior, and then rested his chin in his hands. He appreciated the gesture. The fur was warmer than anything he had ever worn, too much so. Sitting around with the wind cutting through the cloth of his shirt he was he had to admit it was fresh, but Wulf did not get cold easily.

Lars had said Argis was the best man Wulf could wish to have at his side and Wulf was inclined to believe the soldier, especially since the others appeared to share the opinion.

Maybe he would thaw, given time.

Morning arrived after a long, unexciting night.

Meining and Argis rose first and only a few minutes apart. It would be a good two or three hours before the sun made it over the mountains to the east, but by then Wulf had already watered their animals and was coaxing their fire back to life. The housecarl and scout made the round to wake everybody and after much good-natured cursing, the soldiers were up and made quick work of the tents.

After breakfast they doused the fire and moved on. Wulf spent the first part of the day's march walking in silence, this time because nobody besides himself seemed in a mood for an early-morning talk. He was later joined by Theryn and Pike who turned out to be hilarious companions once they were no longer cowed by Wulf's title.

Theryn's face had been burned by some magic-slinging Forsworn, but despite his disfigurement the soldier was merrier and more of an extrovert than his surly brother. Meining was a bit of an oddball – more inclined to talk to his horse than his fellow soldiers, but he joined them in the evenings, even playing the one or other round of dice.

On the last leg of their journey Wulf also managed to corner Gerimund – without his ever present better half, who he had already chatted with. "Are you married?" he enquired of the reticent warrior.

"For seven years now," Gerimund replied .

"And?" Wulf encouraged. "Happily?"

"Very much so," the other Nord replied, but said no more.

He wasn't one for talking, Wulf had noticed. He gave the warrior his space, not wanting to appear too prying. The Nord was happy he was getting along with the soldiers, and better so by the day.

Argis drew him aside that evening.

"There's some things you need to know about the Forsworn," the housecarl said. "They're not great warriors – no technique, no discipline and no honour, but they're not called the Madmen of the Reach for nothing."

Wulf had been about to saw something clever, but the sincerity in Argis' face stopped him. It was the first time the other man had approached him as directly and he was probably better off listening to what the warrior had to say.

Argis continued, "If they have to throw themselves on your sword to score a hit, they'll do it. They don't give a shit if you turn them to mincemeat if they can off you in return. Expect them to come at you with anything, even two weapons at a time – as I've said, they don't care if they die in the fight, but they'll try to make sure to take you down with them."

Wulf nodded that he understood and Argis carried on.

"Keep your shield up and make sure they're dead before you move on."

"You said they are adept at magic?" Wulf asked when no more words came forth.

"Yeah. And resistant to it. Not all of them are witches, but if you spot somebody, stick close to me if you want to live."

"Right."

Wulf already knew that the man was not one for long speeches, but he was a bit disappointed at the lack of faith in his abilities to keep himself alive.

"Their swords," Argis began before taking another approach, "You got some good armour?"

The housecarl eyed Wulf's patched leathers critically. He had not seen Wulfryk's mail, when he had put it on for the first time a day ago, nor today.

"Very good," Wulf assured him with confidence. Irileth's dagger had not so much as nicked the plates made of Skyforge Steel and it had sliced through boiled leather like cloth. Come to think of it, a new set of leather armour was beginning to look like a necessary investment in the near future. His old one was none the better for the recent abuse it had suffered.

Wulf wasn't planning to repeat the fiasco from Dustman's Cairn that had triggered a series of events that it would take Whiterun a while to recover from.

Argis knew nothing of that, of course. He cast his Thane a sceptical look, but did not argue. "Their swords will break against steel plate, but be on your guard. Remember the teeth?"

Again Wulf nodded and Argis resumed, visibly pleased with his attentiveness.

"They're good for ripping your sword and shield out of your hands. Don't hold on to them too tightly. If you lose your blade or shield, close in as fast as you can and use that knife - you're not carrying it for decoration, I hope."

Wulf snorted, but his housecarl did not let him get a word in edgewise.

"The swords are pointy, but too heavy in the grip. They allow for very fast, but not very powerful attacks and they're not overly sharp. Forsworn make the edge from bones, you see. _If_ you're lucky, you can block a blow with your arm without losing it, but...I don't recommend it."

He grimaced in a way that let Wulf know the blond warrior knew what he was talking about and his left hand went to his right forearm though he could not massage it through his arm guards.

Argis became aware of the subconscious motion and let both arms fall again. "Most Forsworn don't wear armour; just furs. You'd think it a weakness, but it also makes them fast."

It made sense, Wulf guessed. If you did not care if you lived through the fight you might as well die comfortably and not sweat beneath a heap of metal.

"We don't have training weapons or I'd take you for a spar," the housecarl sighed. "Just stick close to me, yeah?"

Like he expected Wulf to do the exact opposite. "You'll never guess it, Sunshine, but I survived three decades without a nanny," Wulfryk snapped, vexed with the constant doubt.

"It ain't just your life that's at stake here, Thane," Argis replied with clear disregard for the matter. "It's my honour."

That was... blunt.

The night crept in and all warriors were moving about with a nervous energy. Wulf retired early, but sleep evaded him. He had rested uneasily throughout the whole journey; next to him Argis was practically humming with tension. There was a root in Wulf's back, he was too hot and the air in the tent was too close. The housecarl grunted unhappily when his Thane tossed and turned and kicked him in the process. Wulfryk found a position that was moderately comfortable for the first few seconds. The root now was digging into his stomach.

Wulf cursed and sat up. "When do we get there?" he asked the man beside him.

Argis lowered the arm that had been lying across his face and Wulf could feel the man's scowl.

"In the afternoon," the housecarl replied. "We cannot stay too long in the area or we'll risk being discovered by lookouts."

Wulf huffed in response and twisted to avoid the bump digging into his ribs. His back hit Arigs' side.

"Would you lie still?" the housecarl snapped gruffly, forgetting the proper way to address his Thane. He sounded a hair's breadth from wanting to knock Wulf unconscious.

"That's easy for you to say," the dark haired warrior whined. "You've got the comfortable side."

"I don't."

"Then let's swap."

"Oh, for Mara's sake!"

Argis sat up as well and they shifted around until Wulf could stretch out in his housecarl's place. The ground had a shallow hollow and the furs beneath him were warm. He buried his face in them and deliberately slowed his breathing and felt the lethargy of sleep take hold of him after a few minutes. Until he heard Argis' quiet, "Son of a-"

"What's wrong?" Wulf murmured, already half asleep.

"There's a bloody root in my back," Argis grunted.

Wulf chuckled until he drifted off.

 oooo

They were lying on a hill, as close to the ground as possible.

"It's the first rule of scouting," Meining had whispered, "If you can see them, always assume that they can see you."

The scout had spotted the Forsworn first and shown them a way to approach and now Argis, Pike, Gerimund, Wulf and Meining were on their stomachs, pointing at the distant camp and trying to estimate their enemy's numbers.

"They got backup," Gerimund muttered grimly.

"Aye." Pike sighed and skidded down the gentle hill on her back with the others following suit. "Looks like thirty men at least."

"Can you get a better look at it?" Argis asked their scout.

The man was shaking his head before the housecarl had finished speaking. "Sorry, Argis, but I bet they got somebody on that cliff." He pointed towards the wall of rock that the encampment was built against. The angle was disadvantageous to their foe, but that would change once they tried to get closer.

"What do we do?" Pike asked.

"Only one thing we can do: we wait for nightfall." Argis briefly checked with Wulf to see if his Thane approved of the decision.

Wulfyk did. Going up against thrice their number was a very bad idea, especially as the Forsworn would know of the attack long before they closed in. They had come here to kill the goatspawn, but Wulf did not want for any of his comrades to lose their lives for nothing. A plan began to form in the back of his mind.

"Do you think they are expecting us?" Gerimund asked on their way back to where the others were hiding.

"Didn't look like it," Argis replied, but contrary to the words his tone indicated that he was not ruling out the option.

Wulf let them go in front and fell back. "Did you see anybody up on the cliff?" he asked their scout.

"No," Meining replied, "But there usually is one. Good view from up there."

"Can you take him out? Quietly," Wulf added.

"Think so. Why?"

Wulf smiled. That was all he needed to know. "I'll tell you later."

They met up with the others to discuss their further course of action and wait for night to come. Wulf grabbed his sword and headed out into the night, to stand beside the ring of soldiers who sat on the ground, without a fire this time.

"I'll go and have a look," he announced to the surprise of all. " _I_ does not include you," Wulf told Argis when the warrior stood up to protest, without looking his way. He never saw the murderous glare directed at him before the housecarl nodded jerkily and disappeared between the trees.

Wulf planned to do more than that, but they needed not know. He told them to stay put, ignoring the worried glances some of them cast after Argis and nodded at Meining who rose as soundlessly as he did anything else. They walked for a while together before the scout slipped away into the darkness. Wulf continued on to the rise they had watched the Forsworn camp from earlier this day and waited, estimating how long it would take Meining to climb the hill.

When enough time had passed, Wulf crept forward. If he could kill the enemy sentry without raising the alarm then they stood a fairly good chance at catching the Forsworn flat-footed. They should be easy for the Nords to overcome then until those who managed to put up a defence were too few in number to withstand.

Killing sleeping men in their beds sounded easier than it usually was; there always happened to be somebody unfortunate to take a piss and one scream was all it would take to wake everybody else. Wulf had a nagging suspicion, confirmed by his comrades that these people would not remain addled with sleep and floundering for long. They were, after all, in enemy territory and on guard.

The warrior only hoped that Meining would indeed get that guard. He hated relying on people he did not know, but there was nothing for it this once and from what he had seen so far, a Khajiiti Nightstalker would be proud of the man. It would work out. Had to, this time.

Wulf heard the sentry long before he spotted the man. The warrior was alternating between pacing the perimeter of the camp and sitting on a rock, legs dangling. If the sentinel atop the cliff had a bow, he would be able to give his friend cover – and he would be able to spot anybody the man below overlooked. Wulf looked up, but he only saw the outline of the hill and the stars above. The night was quiet. He wondered if the two had some means of communication, like Meining's whistles.

He moved forward. The outskirts of the camp gave Wulf some cover; the Forsworn did not want to be all out in the open either. When the other warrior had his back turned and walked in the other direction Wulf dashed forward. He stepped over the low-hanging bone chimes Meining had warned him of, sprinted forward and threw himself over the boulder that from time to time served at the Forsworn's resting place.

It took a while before Wulf heard the soft scuff of the man's leather moccasins against grass. The sentry walked to the other side of the camp and back again and Wulfryk feared that he would never sit down, but after an eternity of patrolling, the Forsworn warrior pulled himself up on the rock's flat surface. He bent down then and plucked a blade of grass and blew into it, the keening cry a perfect imitation of a young long-eared owl.

That about answered Wulf's earlier question. He shot up from his hiding place and clamped a hand over the other man's mouth and slit his throat. The Forsworn fell from his perch, gurgling and clawing at his throat, his death grip raking bloody furrows into his attacker's wrist. Wulf hissed and slipped his knife under the man's sternum and into his heart, giving him a quicker death. The hand around his own went slack. He hefted the body back up on the rock and let it slump forward in a bad parody of a sitting man. In the dark and from the distance it was good enough to fool anybody who did not take a closer look.

With the smell of the dead warrior's blood in his nose, Wulf slunk through the camp, taking notice of everything they could use to their advantage. He was at the far back when he noticed another tent, bigger than the others and standing apart. It was surrounded by stakes, a wild goat's head adorning one of them. He did not bother speculating, but snuck up to the tent from which he heard a droning rattle of what sounded like a man dying from the cold in his lungs. The sound rose and fell in slow, regular intervals and it was accompanied by snoring.

Wulf knelt at the flap and felt the sizzling crack of magic lazily rolling across the floor. He could be sure now to have found his target. Argis had been right about the smell. Even through the leather the pungent stench of raw meat gone rancid saturated the air, along with something that made his hackles rise. He tried to focus on the magic he had felt and was relieved to find a pattern he was familiar with. The warrior regularly used the spell to fortify his own camps.

Nifty. Most mages could not work runes. They were difficult and took a long time to make and were never as strong as active magic, but they did not wear off and you needed neither soulgems nor a great amount of power, just control.

Wulf was glad to be alone now, worked magic best when undisturbed, he did not need a bunch of Nords releasing their battlecries next to him.

Runes were magic tied to objects; carvings in stone, or stitches in a fabric or - he found them after a brief search - signs etched into the dirt. Primitive, but just as effective, as long as the symbols were intact.

Wulf looked at the strings of energy that he could find, followed their lines and intersections before reaching inside and plucking one thread. Unravelling magic was like unravelling knots in a rope. Force availed you nothing, it would either tighten the knot or rip apart the string – and trigger the magical effect. No, he had to look at the flaws and pick out the right one to loosen the whole structure before he took it apart.

The hagraven's spell was surprisingly similar to Wulf's own and he quickly detected the weakness, the interruption where the magic was not flowing but had been tied off. He cast his own power into the spell to keep it up and smeared some of the runes with his foot and then let go of the flow of magic and with baited breath watched the whole ward collapse.

The hagraven's unnerving breath had not changed in pitch or frequency; she was asleep still.

Sloppy. Cyremon had taught Wulf to always back up his wards with a spell that would trigger should the original be messed with. Of course the second one could be dispelled too, but that was much more difficult as the magic would have to be actively kept up with exactly the same intensity and pattern used by the weaver.

Wulf next opened the real knots that held closed the flap and slipped inside, alert for more magical traps. There were none, though, only the silhouette of a table to the left and a dark shape lying on a bed of straw to the right. The warrior pulled his sword from its sheath. The blade descended on flesh with a dull thud, bit through sinews and cartilage and bone. It was a lucky stroke that severed the hagraven's spinal cord in the first blow and her head rolled over, attached to the rest of the body by only a flimsy fibre of muscle. Blood spurted into the straw, the colour lost in the darkness, but not so the smell of it, pungent and as inhuman as the rest of the creature.

And then, Wulfryk realized, it was absolutely quiet. He huffed out a breath, pleased with his work and after cleaning and sheathing his sword he slung it back over his shoulder and turned to leave. Wulf's hip knocked against the table in the wrong way and he grunted at having the edge dig into his bone. He cast a look at it and his heart missed a beat. What the warrior had first taken for the carcass of an animal turned out to be the body of a grown man, clad in the furs of his people with a headdress made from a stag's antlers pulled over his face.

Amongst bushels of snowberries and heather and the severed heads of various small animals, his heart was lying on a platter like some gruesome offering. Wulf did another double-take when he realized that's just what it was.

"Shor's bones!"

The dead guy stirred and began to sit up with a low groan, like he had been just asleep.

How in Shor's name did you kill somebody who had already had his heart removed!? Wulf suppressed a minor panic attack and settled for the good old knife-through-the-eye-method. As long as the guy's head wasn't stuffed with shrubbery as well it ought to work fine.

He fumbled out his knife with fingers that did not feel like his own and, grabbing the confused Forsworn's head with one hand, plunged the dagger in to the hilt with the other. It took a few seconds for the man's spasms to stop and then they did, Wulf removed his knife, wiping it on a piece of cloth.

This was some sort of necromancy he had never encountered before. It was probably too much to hope for that he never would again.

Nevertheless, he was intrigued. The Nord cut through the straps that sewed shut the gaping hole in the dead Forsworn's chest and used his knife to fish out the seed that had been stuffed inside. Wulf pocketed the briarheart's briar-heart and checked that the camp outside was just as quiet and peaceful as it had been when he had snuck in. It was. The only thing moving in the dead of the night was he.  

The warrior made sure to repeatedly whistle softly as he approached the place where their soldiers were hidden. He did not want to end up with a sword buried in his skull because somebody was edgy. His companions all rose from their crouched positions, their dark shapes barely visible against the sky when they blocked out the stars.

Wulf did not see Argis until the man roughly grabbed Wulf's shoulders and it seemed he wanted to shake his Thane, but settled on asking if Wulfryk was alright.

"Yes; and I've got a plan," Wulf announced happily, ignoring his housecarl's silent, but menacing presence. He could smell the anger rolling off of the warrior. Soon he could vent it on somebody other than the dark-haired man beside him.

"What do we do?" Lars asked.

Wulf chuckled. He was in love with his plan and eager to share it. "We set them on fire," the warrior stated, laughing quietly. "I've – found oil." He had almost said smelled, but nobody noticed the slip. "They have several jars of it and they have this habit of sleeping on beds of straw..."

"Let's cure them of it," Iver sniggered.

"A fire is bound to wake the whole camp," Argis pointed out thoughtfully. He appeared to have gotten a grip on himself.

"One scream is all it takes to wake them up," Wulf countered, "We can attack in pairs and hope we get as many as we can, however, they have magical wards. Or we can settle for utter chaos."

"Fire will give us the light to see," Pike pointed out.

"And blind them if it's the first thing they walk up to," Iver said in agreement.

"Lots of smoke, confusion...everybody's bound to panic when they wake up on fire." Lars joined in.

"What about the hagraven?" Gerimund asked and his words wiped the grins that had begun to form on the faces around him.

"She won't be troubling us anymore," Wulf replied nonchalantly and ignored Argis' cursing. He could just feel his housecarl's eyes drill into his back. The blond warrior could grouse all he liked, but Wulf had seen an opportunity and seized it.

They quickly settled on a tactic. Wulf was in the lead and he pointed out the bone chimes to the others and suppressed a snort of laughter when Lars jumped a foot in the air when he spotted the dead sentry. Wulf had quite forgotten about him. He showed Kjald and Theryn where the oil was hidden away and then cowered down next to Argis. The others were in pairs as well, and Wulf counted the seconds in his head.

Finally his housecarl got up and nodded and together they stormed the first tent. Wulf had been right, in one thing. Shouts arose from several places at the same time. The warrior stabbed the woman who was scrambling to get up and to his left Argis dealt with her comrades.

When they emerged it was to see half of the camp being devoured by flames, and between the tents panicked figures were running and trying to form some defence against the Nords who had descended upon them out of nowhere.

Thirty Forsworn was not a large camp, but it was hardly small either. The Madmen fought like, well, madmen despite or maybe because of the rude awakening.

Wulf could understand, he was not a morning person either. He lent his battlecry to those of his comrades and ran a man through who had taken the wrong turn. The heat of the fire made sweat sting at his temple and the smoke impaired the visibility. All around him were the sounds of the raging fight; the screams of the dying and the alarmed calls of their enemy and between them, sometimes a bellowed Nord curse or taunt reached Wulf's ears.

Through the smoke the warrior saw more figures running, bowed low and too light on their feet to be their friends. He elbowed Argis in the side and they were running to charge them. Argis barrelled into the foremost man shield-first, sending the smaller Breton flying and Wulf evaded the woman who jumped at him and kicked her in the back of her knee. The Forsworn stumbled to her knees, but Wulf had no time to deal with her, because he was already spinning and then his shield connected with a sword that had been aimed for his head. Bone shards went flying and Wulf flinched back, but so did the Forsworn and the Nord's shield smashing into him unbalanced him enough that Wulf could slip his sword under his defence. There was a bloody good reason warriors wore armour, but the unfortunate man learned too late as his guts tangled around his knees.

In the time it had taken Wulf to deal with the warrior, Argis had put his three friends into the ground, including the woman whose head was no longer attached to her body.

They moved on, following the screams to the camp's edge, Wulf casting awed glances at his housecarl. The man knew how to fight.

Out of nowhere, something knocked into Wulfryk. He pushed at the figure, sending it to the ground and ready to strike only to let his sword fly past the startled man's head by an inch. It appeared Meining had joined the fight. And then the last Forsworn defenders burst from a row of tents, which would explain why the scout had been so hastily backing off.

Argis intercepted the first attacker, dropped into a crouch and hacked away her legs while Meining rolled back to his feet and stabbed the fallen enemy through the throat. Wulf had a man with two axes going after him, and another one with what looked like a roasting spit. He jumped to the side, let the Forsworn bump into each other and the tip of his sword grazed the right warrior's thigh. But the Wulf had to withdraw again, because the axe-wielding Forsworn was chipping away at his shield like he wanted to reduce it to timber. The attacks had no finesse, just a lot of anger. Wulf kicked at the second man, slipped by and slashed the first one across the back hard enough to reveal his ribs and spine. The man turned with a shriek of pain, eyes bulging and stumbled forward again, his teeth bared in a bloody grimace, even as his friend moved to flank the Nord. Couldn't they just die already?

Before Wulf could lift his shield again to face the attackers, Argis had buried his throwing axe in the left man's chest with a bellow. The warrior had pried it out of the corpse and stuck the handle through its ring in the next instant and his shield appeared in the corner of Wulf's eyes before it connected with the other Forsworn's head.

And then, suddenly, things were quiet with the sole exception of their panting breaths and the crackling of the fire.

The three of them stuck closely together as they walked slowly, eyes and ears strained for any sound or sign of movement. Two more figures, appeared through the smoke, but they were not attacking. One was sitting on the ground.

"You alright?" Argis called and they hurried over.

"Aye," Pike gasped. "Lend's sprained an ankle. Where are the others?"

"Meining shrugged, but soon there was a call from the other side of the camp.

Pike and Meining helped Lend up and supported the warrior, while Argis and Wulf walked in front. They found the rest of their group in front of the former Forsworn camp, out of the smoke. Kjald, Theryn, Iver and Gerimund; and everybody was standing. Iver had a bleeding cut across his arm that his lover was binding tightly, but they were alive. When a man with a horned headdress jumped out of the dark, waving his arms, several swords were drawn before the man disposed of his ornament and Lars' grinning visage came into view from beneath it.

Argis punched him for the dumb prank, but Wulf saw the white flash of his teeth. All the tension had left the housecarl and he turned to Lend who was balancing on one leg.

"Are you hurt badly?"

"He stumbled over a chicken," Pike chortled in answer and one after the other everybody joined in. The laughter turned to a roar and then a cheer went up. Wulf's was glad to be wearing mail, because he got so many slaps on the back he would have been black and blue without it. They put down the wounded Forsworn, looted their camp for any valuables and as the first stars were winking out, retreated back to their own encampment to celebrate the victory.

Iver had packed some hard liquor made from juniper berries and before long they were drunk on more than triumph.

 

xxxx

 

"I heard from a reliable source that you've put two hundred Septims of blood money on the hagraven," Wulfryk spoke up beside Argis on their way home. The hangover did not spoil his good mood in the slightest.

"Reliable source?" the warrior repeated and thought 'Iver, you traitorous bastard.'

Wulf's answer was a broad grin. "Now, about that debt I owe you..."

"Fine," Argis admitted grudgingly. His Thane had maybe even saved lives by sneaking into the camp killing that hagraven when she was asleep, stupid risk though it had been. "Consider it lowered to six hundred gold."

"I think the Thornheart is worth just as much, don't you, Sunshine?" Wulf pulled the seed he had taken out of the dead guy's chest from his pocket and presented it to his housecarl with an innocent smile.

And listened to Argis curse him for a reckless fool the whole way back to Markarth.


	59. HT

Markarth was a sight to behold, with the round dome of the Temple of Dibella reaching into the sky and the sun behind the Understone Keep, glinting off polished stone and setting the streams that flowed through the city on fire. Argis rolled his shoulders, feeling the last coils of tension leave him. They were back, their mission was successful and he would not have to make the dreaded, trice-cursed trip to visit relatives or spouses and explain why their beloved one was not going to return, that they could pay their last respects to the remains in the Hall of the Dead. It was Argis' duty as leader to try and offer hollow words of comfort and to endure their grief and accusing stares that it had been him who had taken their loved one with him.

Not this time.

They were back and none of his men had suffered a grievous injury.

Meining had allowed Lend to ride his horse since there was nothing more that could be done for the soldier out in the field and Wulfryk had, over the course of several days, healed the cut in Ivar's arm. That had been a surprise, and a thoughtful gesture that had made the soldiers like him all the more. Before the next day Argis was sure they were going to spread the news and raise the man's popularity.

The Nord appeared to be basking in the attention levelled on him, though his demeanour changed to more serious whenever the housecarl was nearby.

His Thane might not know it and hopefully would never find out, but a couple of days ago Argis had been a hair's breadth from burying his fist in the other man's face. Knock him out and truss him up in the tent, then Argis could take care of the Forsworn without worrying about his Thane's idiocy getting them all killed. He'd deal with the consequences later.

He had almost done it when he had received the order to stay behind. Almost.

But not a week ago he had sworn to serve the man, and if it was only a vow he had made to himself, it was one he intended to keep. It had stayed his hand long enough for the rage to abate, to harden into cold, grim resolve and he stormed off before he might do something he'd regret, only to stop and curse a couple of yards into the forest.

He should have known. The scholars said that history had a way of repeating itself.

Argis had changed his course then, and crashed back through the forest and to where the soldiers sat huddled together forming a ring and sharing cold rations. The housecarl received a few glances from beneath their brows that varied from nervous to sympathetic, but Lars was the only one to approach him.

"He's gone, Argis," the redhead said quietly when he saw the housecarl was ready to storm the enemy camp by himself after he had looked around futilely and did not see his Thane amongst the other warriors. "Don't worry, he'll be back."

The soldier was one of Argis' best friends, but he was an idiot. If something went wrong, Argis could say goodbye to Sovngarde and his position as housecarl and throw his honour right after because he wasn't sure he could ever leave the Reach, his home. He had spent long minutes pacing, and barked at the soldiers to get ready to attack at the first sign of trouble.

And then Wulfryk had come back, grinning and rubbing his hands over a plan that had worked out like a charm. He'd not only managed to somehow get close enough to the hagraven to kill her without getting himself set on fire, but also got the briarheart and by doing so probably saved more than one life that day. Argis did not know how his Thane had accomplished either, although…considering that the Nord seemed to know magic, maybe that was how he had gotten past the Forsworn wards. It was more than any of the army's few mages had done. The Forsworn magic was a primeval thing, different from what they taught in the College and whilst their few spellcasters were good enough for throwing up shields or blasting a few enemies apart, they had no understanding of the old magick.

Argis had felt sick throughout the evening, imagining what could have been and the alcohol did nothing to calm down what felt like snakes writhing in his belly. And he was angry. He drank with the others and tried not to let any of his thoughts show and he thought he had succeeded rather well, although his memories didn't stretch beyond the first hour of celebrating.

Argis had received an apology-of sorts- on the morrow after their little party and he might have been more agreeable had he not been nursing a massive hangover.

"Look," Wulfryk had begun in a tone that indicated that he knew that whatever he had to say would disagree with Argis. "I'm sorry about your honour, but it's my life at stake here as well and I know you as well as you know me." Which was, not at all. "So I'd rather take care of some things of my own rather than risk my life in some collective stupidity where you and everybody else can get yourselves killed on some dumb Nord principle."

And all Argis had heard was pretty much a confirmation of everything he had feared. "You think you can fight your way out _on your own_ if something goes awry?"

"I'd rather not," Wulfryk replied thoughtfully, as if he did not consider it entirely impossible.

The housecarl shook his head. Bloody fool would get himself killed. It wasn't going to happen again. He would not let it happen, he had decided that in a moment drunken clarity before he had fallen into a stupor. Why should he heed orders when his Thane was no leader?

If there was a decision to be felled he was amongst the first to look towards the housecarl for guidance. When Argis had addressed the matter, asked whether he did not want to more actively assume the role of commander, the other man had only shrugged and said that he did not know yet how things were done around here. And seeing as they seemed to have been working fine without him, why should he change anything? It was a clever enough answer Argis almost missed how it wasn't one at all. But it was not his place to tell his Thane so, even if he were not of the opinion that the other Nord was right.

They did not need anybody interfering with affairs that were well in hand and running smoothly, had been for years. The last Thane who had though it a good idea to meddle, they'd had the joyous task of scraping off the ground with pocketknives to bring back a handful of bloody pulp and bone shards for a symbolic burial.

Argis had already proven he was not going to uphold one man's misguided pride over the lives of many, though he hoped he would never be in a situation again where he had to choose a side. It had seemed like a great solution at the time to his muddled brain, but in the clear light of the morning and without the alcohol to grease the tangled mess that were his thoughts, the argument fell flat. It was never as easy as that.

"Home, sweet home," Lars sighed and stretched, dropping his pack with a loud clatter that interrupted the housecarl's brooding. "I'm gonna hit the Shed and get drunk," the soldier stated with an expression of bliss on his face. "Ya comin', Argis?"

Argis shook his head, glad that the dark thoughts from before had been chased away. All he wanted was to enjoy a quiet evening by the hearth's fire back home and to turn in early, knowing that his night's rest would be undisturbed by Forsworn, wild beasts, bandits and any other unpleasant surprises or emergencies.

Gods, he had grown old.

Lars turned to the other man beside him, unfazed by the refusal. "Wulf?"

"Not today," Wulfryk declined. "I've got a hideous but heavenly comfy bed that's been missing me awfully bad."

Argis snorted. It had been the other way round, of that he was sure. He eyed the remaining soldiers and, feeling that a few parting words were in order, congratulated everybody on a job well done. Kjald and Pike had taken Lend to see a physician, the scout was grooming his horse outside of the city and Lars marched off with one last wave, but Gerimund clasped the housecarl's arm in farewell and Iver moved in for a brief embrace.

"Don't be a stranger," the soldier said quietly before leaving.

Wulfryk exchanged a few words with Theryn that ended with both of them laughing uproariously and Argis waited patiently until they were done and his Thane caught up to him.

The housecarl stopped abruptly and hung back for a few steps, coming up on the Nord's other side. His Thane had the irritating habit of walking to his left, and as long as he was beside Argis, he was in his blind spot. If Wulf noticed Argis' peculiar behaviour he did not react to it in any way. Both men's strides lengthened until Wulf walked right past the staircase that led to Vlindrel hall and his housecarl had to call him back, lips quirking with amusement.

Wulfryk had a slightly sheepish look on his face and muttered something about getting lost, not that Argis was paying him much heed at that point. He let out a happy groan when all the stairs were behind them and the lock clicked when he turned the key and the door swung open to reveal the familiar sight and smell of his home. It was good to be back. There was nothing that could make Argis leave again today; not if Igmund personally came to plead on his knees because all the Forsworn of the Reach were knocking on Markarth's gates.

 

xxxx

 

Wulf toed off his muddy shoes - he had not forgotten Argis' peculiar house rule and had no intention of riling up the warrior.

Especially after their somewhat strained encounter in the woods when Wulf had walked a few steps away from where the rest of the soldiers were making merry to take an undisturbed piss in the wood. Of course somebody had to follow, and he had turned his head when a twig snapped underfoot with a sharp crack. Wulf had to admit that he was surprised to see that it was Argis, but he was more worried because the warrior had been regarding him with a glazed stare of an intensity that only a truly smashed person ever could fully achieve.

"There's trees enough for the both of us," Wulf had offered chivalrously.

"If you ever think of pulling another such brainless stunt, I'll break both your fucking legs and tie you in a knot," the warrior snarled back and Wulf could feel his good mood wilting, wondering if it had been a bad idea to leave his sword with the others. Now his housecarl was threatening bodily harm, through judging by how the blond warrior was waving on his feet, he probably wasn't up to making good on the threat straight away. Argis had pointed an astonishingly accurate finger at Wulf – whose thoughts drifted to the topic of whether one-eyed men ever had double-vision and – and hiccupped a deferential "Thane," that did not go well at all with his earlier comment. The warrior had drained half of the bottle of juniper spirit he had carried here in one go like it was milk and staggered back to camp without another glance for Wulfryk.

And that had been it. On the next day Argis was acting as if nothing untoward had happened and Wulf was baffled enough by his behaviour to consider the possibility that it had just been some weird conjuration of his addled brain, especially as Argis had fallen right back into his role as obedient housecarl though he did look a little rough around the edges for the next two days. They all did, which did not diminish the high spirits one bit.

 oooo

Wulf pulled open the straps of his pack and put it down to lean against the wall. One of his boots fell over, across the carpet of the hallway and he thought he heard the housecarl's unhappy harrumph, but Wulf did not further contemplate it as he rolled his shoulders and neck, both which were aching and stiff after long hours of marching. They had pushed hard on their way back, but then nobody except for Meining wanted to spend one more night than absolutely necessary out in the wilds. The scout could stay outside all through winter for all Wulf cared at the moment, but what _he_ needed was a nice, hot bath to soak in and relax.

Luckily, Vlindrel Hall was just the place where he could get that. Argis was busy lighting a fire that would chase away the damp and chill of a house abandoned for too long while Wulf made his way to the bathroom. He was both amused and amazed that somebody would dedicate an entire room to bathing, but then Argis had told him that it was not an uncommon thing with the Dwemer and frankly, he was quite glad for it. It was a most welcome sight, the rectangular 'tub' that was more of a pool set in the floor, and big enough that Wulf could stretch out in every direction.

There were three levers, Argis had explained their use. Wulf threw the first one and heard the rush and gurgle of water running through the pipe and boiler and one more pipe to come out on the stones below. The whole mechanism was so simple; Wulf wondered how nobody else had thought of it. Maybe he could make a fortune by selling it to the Jarls of Skyrim. The many streams of melt water that ran through Markarth were good for more than just powering water wheels, but the implementation of the mechanics might be difficult in another place. He discarded the idea again.

The Nord was so lost in thought as he leaned against the wall, that it took him a while to realize he had forgotten to turn the last lever, the one that prevented all the water from draining away again. He hurriedly remedied that and cast a look over his shoulder to ensure himself that Argis had not witnessed his oversight.

He had not. The housecarl had disappeared, but fires were roaring in two of the house's four fireplaces. Apparently the Dwemer liked more than just warm water. Wulf snatched some logs from a nearby basket and went back. It would take a while for the tub to fill and once it had done so about halfway through, Wulf turned the second lever and let the boiler fill. He used the sound of the flowing water to judge when the metal cistern was full and then he shut off the water entirely and lit a fire underneath.

Wulf then returned to the hallway to find his pack and boots gone. The former he found lying atop his bed and the letter he did not look after. The warrior undressed, hanging his armour over a chair and tossing the dirty clothes in a pile next to the door. Within a short time he had unpacked his belongings. Some things the Nord stored on the many shelves while others he took to the living room so that they might dry properly before he would air them out and put them away.

Argis climbed out of the cellar at the very moment, grumbling something to himself that sounded like a grocery list. He carried a lamp in one hand and he was looking unhappy. "Are you hungry, my Thane?" the housecarl asked and his tone indicated that he very much hoped it was not so.

"No, but if you want to take a bath anytime within the next hour, we'll have to share." Wulf wasn't selfish enough to occupy the bath all by himself when there was more than enough space for two and Argis had to be just as weary and grimy as he himself was. Besides, it was more fun when there was somebody Wulf could talk to. Argis looked like he might refuse, more from habit than actually hearing what Wulf had said, but apparently the warrior had no intentions of waiting and had come to the same conclusion as Wulfryk.

Argis nodded and disappeared into his room where Wulf did not follow this time. The other Nord was much more orderly than Wulf; his chest piece was hanging on a mannequin with all the other parts of his armour neatly laid out.

Wulf left his housecarl to check on the water; it was boiling and he unlaced his pants and kicked out of them, before he knelt by the pool's edge and lit his oil lamp. When the fire had reduced the embers to coals he closed the hinged lid of the boiler and let a goodly amount of the hot water mix with the cold one already in the tub and stirred it with his foot. When it hit just the right temperature, Wulf slowly lowered himself into the bath and groaned in delight at the burn.

Argis entered the room and put down his lamp. Its light added to the one already there, the flames dancing over stone tiles in a way that made Wulf's eyes tired and close of their own accord. He yawned and pried them open again to see that his housecarl carried something that he tossed to his Thane and Wulf caught a rolled up towel before it smacked him in the face. It was impossibly thick and soft and he used it to pillow his head atop. The cloth smelled of pine and juniper with a hint of lavender and, even more faintly, of the man who dipped in a hand into the water and withdrew it quickly.

"Didn't you overdo it a bit?" the blond warrior asked gruffly, but he did sit on the edge and soaked his feet to adjust to the temperature.

"It'll cool down in a while," Wulf replied. The heat was seeping into his tired muscles and there was something incredibly luxurious about being able to stretch out whilst bathing. While he seldom was cold, it did not mean that he did not appreciate being _warm_ every now and then. Warm enough that a few beads of sweat pricked at his temples. The last months had been rather cold, wet and altogether miserable, Wulf thought as the hall was filling with the almost incense-like smell of burning wood. The gentle sloshing of water was lulling him to sleep until the level rose and splashed against his chin when Argis finally immersed himself.

"This is good."

"M-hmm," Wulf hummed in agreement. "I knew there was something missing in my life."

Argis chuckled and Wulf heard him draw in a deep breath and sigh in pleasure. When he opened his eyes again Argis was stretched out with his arms crossed behind his head. The housecarl was as relaxed as Wulf had ever seen him, which only served to empathise how wound up he had been up until now. But Wulf could not sense any of the warrior's rigid formality or tension from before. Maybe it was being washed away, along with the dirt. Gone was also the pendant that Argis seemed to be quite fond of.

The housecarl had some impressive claw marks on his chest; four vertical lines on each half ranging from just two finger's wide to a full three inches on the left side, closest to the breastbone. They were all the more visible for the scar tissue being slightly raised and cutting through the hair on Argis' chest. It was a darker shade of blonde than his hair, though it was difficult to tell in the dim, dancing light. Wulf should have looked more closely before his housecarl had slipped into the water. There was plenty to appreciate of the warrior all around and Wulfryk spent a few heartbeats bemoaning the lost opportunity before he spoke up.

"That was some big cat."

Argis didn't stir, but he answered with a small smile. He sounded pleased. "Made an even bigger mistake."

Wulf could not see his mangled right arm, folded as it was to support the warrior's head, but he recognized the deep slashes across Argis' left forearm as knife wounds. What he could not relate to any weapon was a round scar with jagged edges on his housecarl's side that pulled at the surrounding skin. It was sizeable and looked to have been painful one, but was now faded.

"What's that one from?" Wulf asked, pointing.

The blond warrior looked down his body like he had forgotten about the mark and rubbed the spot absent-mindedly. "Spear. Almost did me in. It's an old one," Argis shrugged and told how he had received it not too long after he had begun his training as a housecarl and how it had led to an involuntary break from it.

Which led to Wulf having to recount how he had been shot twice and had to drag himself out of a tomb and to the next city which had been almost a week away. He did not tell the entire truth, but other than avoiding the Companions, Whiterun and the Silver Hand it was an easy, safe topic. Wulf had yet to meet a Nord who was not happy to brag about the marks he had received in battle. They were something to be proud of, for scars were the proof that a warrior had faced danger and survived it.

Eventually the water did grow cool and they let in some more from the boiler, though the pool was in danger of spilling over. By then Wulf's fingers were all wrinkled and he figured it was time to get on with what he had actually come here for.

"You got any soap?"

Argis had brought two slices for them and Wulf worked up a nice lather and scrubbed himself clean. His hair received the same treatment - three times, before Wulf was happy. The Nord could feel his wet locks tickle as they were plastered against his back, way too low. He would have to visit a barber one of these days. Instead of rinsing he slipped beneath the water's surface and came up when he could no longer hold his breath. All the soreness from before was gone, along with the fatigue that had threatened to overwhelm him earlier.

Wulf climbed out of the bath and slung the towel over his shoulder without bothering to dry off. The air would do that for him. He wrung the water from his hair as well as he could and stopped halfway to his room to hop on one leg a couple of times to with his head tilted to the side get it out of his ear as well.

Argis followed not long after. "Is there a reason you're dripping all over my floor? My Thane?"

Wulf turned to face the housecarl. The man had his towel slung around his hips and he watched his Thane with his arms crossed and a frown of disapproval. "Just thinking if maybe I'm not up to a night of drinking after all," Wulf replied. "Would you come?"

Argis shook his head. "No. I've got armour to take care of." With that the Nord disappeared into his bedroom.

Wulf shrugged even if there was nobody there to see it and slipped into a pair of soft, fine trousers made from tundra cotton and slung the towel across his shoulders to prevent drops of water from running down his back. He hated the feeling. Argis was barefooted, but dressed again when Wulf entered the living room, which was a pity, really, and he was laying out various objects on the table next to the fire. Wulfryk saw everything from his breastplate to an old leather belt.

"Armour," he picked up where Argis had left off. "You know any good smiths around here?"

Argis looked up briefly from his task. "Moth," he said. "If he doesn't have something he can point you the right way. He's usually in the Keep, has his forge there. Just ask any of the guards. Though if he's busy you can talk to his sister, Ghorza." The housecarl opened a container and a variety of brushes, clothes, oils and tools tumbled out.

"Orcs?" Wulf asked, his eyes glued to the utensils. He had not been sure about 'Moth' but Ghorza definitely was an Orsimer name.

"Aye. They know their craft."

"You mind if I join you?" Wulf did not want to receive the well rehearsed answer of 'It would be an honour'. He wanted a friend he could talk to, not a servant. Wulfryk was not sure whether Argis really valued his gods-damned floor so much that he suddenly would become withdrawn again, but wanted to see the guy he had caught glimpses of here and there, the man that was well loved by all the soldiers he had talked to thus far because he stuck with them no matter what and never hesitated to aid a comrade in dire straits, even if he had to chare straight into danger at a risk to his own life. Wulf was aware that for all the talk of housecarls and Thanes he was an intruder in the other Nord's home. Argis did strike him as a person of a rather solitary nature and he was reserved in the company of all but his closest friends and then Wulf had only caught brief flashes of the warrior with his guard down.

If he was not welcome here, he could leave and go drink with Lars in that establishment with the dubious name, but Wulf did not feel like being alone right now. He'd been on his own ever since he had left Whiterun and he was fairly sick of it, more so because he missed the camaraderie that had developed between the warriors.

The firelight made deep shadows dance across Argis' scarred cheek when he looked up. The white of his blind eye was shining brightly in the shadowy room, but neither his eyes nor his expression betrayed any of the blond warrior's thoughts. After a heartbeat that felt like an eternity to Wulf, he nudged the chair to his right with his bare foot and it slid out from under the table invitingly.

"I'll just get my things, yes?" Wulf smiled. He knew the grump would come around. Wulf received no answer, but when he came back with his arms full of armour and what few tools to keep it intact that he possessed, he saw that Argis had made space for him. Two mugs were standing on the table, one was steaming.

"Tea?" The housecarl offered when Wulf had seated himself on the chair Argis had proffered.

A kettle hung over the fire and before Wulf could bite his tongue he asked, "Why the pot? We have hot water aplenty."

The appalled look he received in answer was almost comical. "That's for bathing."

"It's water," Wulf replied, but his logic escaped his housecarl entirely and the blond warrior glared until Wulf announced that yes, he would love some tea.

Argis tossed a handful of something into Wulfryk's mug that Wulf identified as dried rose hip. The tea was sweet and tart, but mostly sour. It tasted refreshing and before he knew it, Wulf was on his second mug, this infusion much stronger in taste.

"Keeps you healthy," Argis stated with a dry grin when he looked up from polishing a silver buckle to see that his Thane had set aside his brush and the cloth he had used to buff oil into his vambraces in favour of nursing the tea.

"How do you know?"

"My ma always used to make it when we worked long in the fields." Argis wasn't really sure if it warded off illness, but he remembered how it had been when everybody sat together and they let the warmth seep back into their limbs, so he just repeated the words.

"You were a farmer?" Wulf had difficulty imagining the huge Nord next to him as anything but a warrior.

Argis chuckled at his Thane's disbelieving tone. "I wasn't born with a sword in my hand, you know?"

"Damn. I never would have guessed."

Apparently it was the right thing to say, because the wide grin he received in answer was probably the first genuine smile that Argis did not hold back.

Wulf went back to scrubbing off dirt and rust a while later and Argis bent his head over the glove he was stitching. They worked mostly in silence, only exchanging a few words to ask when the other would be done with the one brush or if he could hand over the oil, please? But it was a companionable silence, unstrained and after a long while Wulf's ears picked out a curious sound over, or rather through the crackling of the fire.

He did not hear it as much as he felt it, right through his chest; a deep rumble that made tiny ripples ghost over his tea's surface. Argis was humming to himself, lost in thought and clearly having quite forgotten he was not alone. Or maybe he did not mind so much anymore. Wulf did not recognize the melody, but he listened in fascination and did not speak or look up from his work for fear of breaking the moment. When he caught the one or other word, he did not understand the meaning, but he thought the song was a tad out of tune, wild and carrying a heavy longing. He realized after listening for a long while that it had to be Málforn, the Old Tongue that Lars had mentioned and Argis had been reluctant to admit that he knew.

When Wulf was done with all the leather parts he decided that he, while not exactly having fun, was enjoying himself nonetheless and he fetched the rest of his armour. He could actually not recall when he had cleaned it quite as thoroughly, but under the scrutinizing gaze that Argis sometimes cast on Wulf's handiwork, the Nord knew that nothing less would suffice.

When he brought it in, Argis was eying Wulf's shirt of mail with rapt attention. "I've never seen anything quite like it before."

"Nor will you. The design is from Elsweyr, the execution is Nordic." Wulf untied the many knots that secured the mail to its leather underside and the woollen padding underneath and put those aside for later treatment. Being able to take everything apart and repair or replace it had been an essential thing in the design. The whole armour would be useless to Wulf if he could not patch it up whilst on the road should it be damaged. Though Eorlund had sniffed in offence at the implication that his precious work might ever be broken, he had abided by the instructions. It was what Wulf had paid for, after all.

Argis was inspecting how each of the small plates were welded into place and padded.

"It's quiet," Wulf remarked with a small smile.

The housecarl grunted, not convinced. "It'll block any slashes and thrusts, but it moves," and here he jabbed a finger at the brigandine as if to prove his point, "So if you take a blow from a weapon with some weight, you'll have broken bones."

"That's why I'm wearing the leather over it."

"Leather hardly compares to steel," Argis argued and leaned closer to polish one of the plates with the hem of his shirt. "And this one has a funny colour. I hope whoever made this hasn't swindled you out of your money."

Wulf laughed. He could not tell the truth, of course, but he could very well imagine Eorlund's face at the accusation. "Leather _cushions_ ," he responded instead. "I've seen plates dented and it's ugly."

That got them into a discussion of plates versus mails and the advantages and downsides of light and heavy armour. Wulf managed to get Argis to leave his choices be and after a while the warrior put aside his shin guard and fixed all his attention on his Thane.

"Where is it? Elsweyr?"

"It's ...elsewhere." Wulfryk sniggered at his own joke.

Argis did not laugh along, either because he was not amused or too deep in thought to have paid much attention to his Thane's answer. "Never had any dealings with the cats myself," he admitted. "They have a little camp outside the city and we meet their caravans on the road sometimes, or find their corpses when they run into the Forsworn."

"They're really quite nice people once you get to know them," Wulf replied and tried not to sound offended that his housecarl had had more dealings with dead Khajiit than live ones and that he appeared not in the least bothered by the fact. He had already found out that most Nords who had never left their homeland weren't exactly eager to make contact with foreigners or overly friendly to them. "Most are, anyway."

Argis did not comment, but grunted with something that might be understanding as easily as it might be the exact opposite. "How did you come by such armour?"

"I used to live there." It was a story Wulf had told more times than he could recount, but he did so anyway. At least Argis did not interrupt him, or pass judgement, just picked up a needle and thread and set to patching up some stitches that were coming loose. At the end of his Thane's tale he looked contemplative about everything he had heard, but Wulf was not so sure he believed that there was a land to the south where snow never fell. Explaining a desert had put Wulf before some unpredicted difficulties since Argis could not begin to imagine endless flatlands with nothing but sand, rocks and dunes. Wulfryk remembered the talk they had had on the first day they had met; that Argis had never even seen Skyrim's tundra, having spent his entire live in the Reach.

Which brought him right back to something that was still on his mind, though he had not found the opportunity to ask so far. "What was it about? The song you were singing earlier?" Wulf did not care whether his question was rather peculiar, but he sincerely wanted to know. "It sounded sad."

"It did?" The housecarl did not seem self-conscious at all, but rather amused. "Actually, it is about the spirits that dwell in the mountains and about finding hope," he said. "I guess the tune is as old as the Reach itself."

"Then it was the Old Tongue, yes?" In truth, he already knew the answer, but Wulf asked nonetheless just to keep their conversation alive. He did not come out and say that if that was cheerful, then he did not want to know what sad sounded like for fear he might get depressed.

"Have you ever lost hope?" Argis asked, serious once more, with his chin held in one hand.

A surprisingly profound question to be asked over hip rose tea and the smell of grease and leather, in the middle of the night. Wulf answered it without thinking, just from the feeling in the pit of his stomach. "No. I wouldn't be alive if I had."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. But I found it again." The housecarl shifted and coughed, looking away as he began to collect various pieces of armour. "It's getting late."

"I don't have to get up early, do I?" Wulf tried for some levity, and got up, lifting his mail carefully so as not to get oil all over himself.

"The Jarl probably wants to see you. I'm sure he has some reward." Argis had just about dashed Wulf's dreams about sleeping in until midday, but he paused with a frown, and after a moment of thought added, And I would like to spar."

"Sure," Wulf shrugged and yawned, feeling like Argis' comment about the time had made his body aware of just how tired he was. "As long as it's not on an empty stomach."

The answering depreciative snort told him what his housecarl thought about going hungry and Wulf grinned as he ambled to his room. "Good night."

"'Night," Argis grunted back absent-mindedly, the gruff word somehow conveying a warmth that Wulf had not picked out of his tone before, in spite of the other Nord having his back to Wulfryk and being by all means busy poking at the embers in the hearth. Then the housecarl straightened and cleared his throat, remembering. "My Thane."

Wulf sighed. He'd have to cure the man of that before it became a bad habit. Starting tomorrow.


	60. HT

Argis sat down in his rocky, overgrown rooftop garden amidst bushels of now dry herbs and grass which sprouted from between cracks in the stone to grow in bristly, tough tufts that were turning yellow and brown with the changing of the season. The rock was warmed by the sun, but a chill hung in the air as a constant reminder that winter was not far away. Argis had brought a satchel with the letters he had received just before he and his Thane had set out to clear out the Forsworn camp. The housecarl would have liked to have a look at them earlier, but there were things he had needed to see to first and paper could wait. Then his Thane had joined him and they had spent a very enjoyable evening working alongside each other and he had quite forgotten about them. Besides, to read he needed good light and a clear head and yesterday he had had neither.

Argis sorted through the correspondence and frowned at the newest date – had to be a mistake, that one – and opened the first letter from a few months ago, smoothing it out carefully. He did not speak out loud, but his lips formed the words as he read along the tight lines of neat script, a reply already forming in his head. He was still so much better at committing things to memory than to paper. Done, he carefully refolded the letter and put it aside. He did not pick up another one. Do it too fast and before he knew it he'd be finished and then he'd have to wait for months again.

The housecarl leaned back, braced on his hands and stared at nothing in particular, a buzzard flying lazy circles in the sky, the city beneath him, the tiny figures of people moving about their business and let his thoughts wander.

Wulfryk had been dead to the world this morning and unresponsive to all of his housecarl's attempts to wake him, so Argis had given up. Igmund had not called for him, and his Thane was well capable of deciding when he wanted to see the Jarl. If he made the man wait and got in trouble for it, it was none of Argis' business. Except that it was.

The warrior should look after his Thane. With a sigh he got up and climbed down, entering Vlindrel Hall only to find out that it had been absolutely unnecessary for him to come here. Wulfryk was up, sitting at the long dining table and listlessly moving his food from one end of the plate to the other.

"Good Morning, my Thane," Argis greeted the other Nord. "I've, uh, made breakfast." As if it was not obvious enough with the guy eating it.

"Thank you," Wulfryk muttered, "My housecarl."

Argis startled; now that didn't sound right at all. He frowned and busied himself nearby, but as a couple of minutes passed it became evident that the other Nord was not interested in any morning chatter and after asking if his Thane needed him for anything and receiving a curt shake of a head in return, the housecarl returned to his favourite spot in his tiny herbal garden and his letters.

 

xxxx

 

If Wulf had overslept and unintentionally kept Igmund waiting, the Jarl was agog about returning the favour. Wulf duly noted the reprimand, but was not particularly bothered by it. He did as Argis had advised him to and visited Moth, the Jarl's personal blacksmith. They poured over designs for Wulf's new leather armour until midday, when a guard came to fetch the Thane to tell him that Igmund was ready to see him now. Moth assured Wulfryk that either he or his sister would see about forging the armour straight away.

The Orsimer had wanted to take the Nord's measurements, but Wulf could do better than that and had brought his old leather cuirass so it could serve as reference. Moth had been anything but thrilled to see the weathered, patched leather.

"This is in rags," the blacksmith growled upon setting his eyes on the armour, his fingers already at the newest cut, the one from one of Irileth's daggers that Wulfryk had not yet gotten around to mending.

"Well, yes." Wulf agreed. "That's why I need a new one."

"I can forge you a masterpiece worthy of your position," the Orc said, a faint hint of excitement in his rough voice.

Wulf was sorry to dash his hope although he managed not to wince. The offer was well-meant even if that actually was the last thing he wanted. "Thank you." He hoped he was not offending by refusing and that by the time the smith was done he'd actually be good for the coin the Orsimer's services would cost him. "But that's something I'd rather not advertise. Makes me a bigger target, you see?"

Moth grunted something and Wulf never got to explain further, because a guard was clearing his throat behind him. Wulfryk took his leave from the blacksmith and followed the soldier until he stood before Igmund's Mourning Throne, and how fitting that it should sound just like 'morning', he thought.

The Jarl waved him closer so the two men would not have to shout at each other over the whistling sound of steam escaping from one of the overhead pipes. A small team was repairing the faulty valve under Calcemo's watchful eye; the Altmer wizard being one of the leading experts on the Dwemer – according to himself.

Wulf carefully stepped around the team, lest one of them dropped a spanner on his head and spared a smile for the Jarl's húskarl that the Redguard did not return. What was it about housecarls that made them perpetually bad-tempered? Maybe it was the place; if Wulf had to spend all of his days in this giant ruin of a palace and with Igmund no less, he'd be cross as well.

"Well?" the Jarl snapped when his Thane showed no inclination to give him a proper report.

"Umm. The Forsworn are dead," Wulf was pleased to announce.

"And?"

Was there something else? Wulf reached into his pocket and handed the Jarl the token of their victory. Igmund stared at the large seed in suspicion, as if he was afraid it might bite him. "What is _that_?"

"It's a Briarheart," Wulf said and quickly corrected himself. "Actually, it's a Briarheart's heart. I wanted to bring the hagraven's head, but after three days it began to smell so bad we had to leave it behind."

The horrified expression on the other Nord's face when he in turn stared at his Thane and the grisly gift convinced Wulf that maybe next time he should send Argis to give the Jarl an account of their mission. When Faleen took the bloody seed from a petrified Igmund he decided that now was the time to make his escape and sketched what might have been a bow or a sore knee buckling under him and left the Understone Keep.

Wulfryk had to shield his eyes with his hand, so bright was the glare of the midday sun but once his eyes adjusted and green flecks no longer swam through his visions he returned to Vlindrel Hall, whistling. Argis was sitting at a small table close to the entrance, where light filtered through the roof.

The housecarl looked up with concern when his Thane came closer. "Did he The Jarl keep you this long?"

In his hands he held a paper with a few scrawled lines filling the top third and another one was spread before him. Wulf recognized the flowing, ornate script of a professional scribe and leaned his hip against the table. "Nah," he replied. Igmund just was a sour bellyacher who hopefully would not forget about his Thane's rightful reward and besides, he didn't know how loyal Argis was to his Jarl.

"I went to see Moth about the armour, just like you said."

"And?"

Wulf shrugged, there wasn't much more to it. "He said he'll do it." Then he remembered something else. "You said you wanted to spar."

"Yes." Argis blew on the paper to help it dry quicker, corked the bottle of ink and rinsed his quill. He wasn't one for sitting around apparently, and looked quite eager to take his Thane up on the offer.

"I'll need armour to train in," Wulf remarked to the passing man. His mail of Skyforge Steel was too valuable for the training grounds and this morning he had given his leathers to Moth.

Argis returned with just a set of keys and a two waterskins, handing one to Wulf. "There's plenty in the armoury; I'm sure we'll find something that'll fit you – my Thane."

And here Wulf had hoped he might forget himself once. "As you say, my housecarl," he replied tartly and with a roll of his eyes at the ceiling that Argis did not see because Wulf was walking in front. He waited until the housecarl had locked the door behind them and together they left for the training grounds. A few soldiers were hanging about, some cleaning armour or sharpening blades, others just talking but there was no fighting going on right now. From what Wulf had gathered from his fellow warriors during their trip, everybody was weary after a long season full with skirmishes with the Forsworn and looking towards the respite that winter would bring them.

Argis was greeted by everybody they passed and Wulf received the one or other respectful 'Thane'. Apparently it was contagious. The housecarl led Wulf to a long, low building and unlocked the door, leaving it wide open for them to see in the dim interior. Wulf did not have to be told that this was the armoury. The room was filled with racks and baskets full of weapons.

Argis pointed to the left-hand side. "These are the training blades. You take a look and I'll get the armour."

"Sure." Wulf's eyes were glued to the rows of weapons. He went right past the maces and axes and spears. Sword. He wanted a sword. Even if the spiked flail looked absolutely wicked. Did they actually train with that thing? Wulf looked after Argis, but the housecarl had disappeared into the next room. Wulf tried out a few and they were not bad – quite to the contrary – but they just didn't feel _right_.

"Did you find something, my Thane?"

"No," Wulf replied. "Nothing that's – you know." There were many good swords here, and maybe it was strange to become sentimental over a piece of steel, but a sword was more than a tool for killing. It was what kept you alive.

Apparently the housecarl understood perfectly even without an explanation. Argis rubbed his chin and pulled out a chest that had been gathering dust in the corner for quite a while. And when he opened it Wulf couldn't stop the smile from spreading over his face, or the giddy feeling in his stomach. He tested his grip on a few swords, and swung them through the air experimentally, narrowing down the choices. Lastly he tapped them all against the stone table in the room. Wulf found a blade he liked almost on the spot. It had the right weight and length and he nodded, satisfied.

Argis had been watching him without a comment the entire time, but he too seemed to approve of his Thane's choice. "Ask one of the smiths to forge you a copy. This one ain't a training sword."

He was right. The edge had not seen any grindstone in a long time, but it was far from blunt. Wulf put the weapon away with a sigh. "I'm a bit short on coin at the moment."

"Money is not a problem," Argis replied immediately and Wulf had to compliment him on his neutral tone. "My Thane? You forgot your sword."

"You sure?"

Wulf saw the corner of his housecarl's mouth quirk upwards. Cocky bastard. If he lost a limb, Wulf refused to feel responsible.

Argis held up two other items; a chainmail shirt and a light leather brigantine. The mail was an almost perfect fit, but they had to loosen the straps to the maximum on the chestpiece. It was not quite tight enough to hinder Wulf's breathing or movement, but a close fit nonetheless.

Argis seemed pleased with the choice he had made for the other man. "Thought so," he muttered to himself.

"Which soldier's gear are we just taking?" Wulf wanted to know.

"Mine," Argis answered with a fond look at his old armour that he had kept in a pristine condition. "These were mine, back when I was younger and in the army. Don't fit into them anymore," the housecarl said, eyes crinkling with mirth.

He missed the glare Wulf shot him as he buckled into his own armour.

 oooo

Outside they met Lars and some guard Wulf did not know. "Morning, Wulf," the redheaded soldier greeted him. "How ya feelin'?"

Wulf smiled back. "Splendid."

"Mind if I watch? It's always fun watchin' Argis draggin' tha new guy through tha dust."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," Wulf grumbled and the redhead grinned at him in answer.

"Ya'll see."

See it Wulf did.

 oooo

They began with a little warm up followed by some stretching. The first few minutes of their spar were easy; their movements loose and neither of them put much effort into their swings. It was still more about getting their blood to flow and finding an inner calm, a focus essential to any combat than about the fight itself.

The two Nords found a rhythm quickly and stuck to it. Argis was a very good training partner. His motions were clear enough that they almost did not need to talk at all. The housecarl took the lead; he indicated his attacks as well as whenever he wished his Thane to strike back. He did not push though, let Wulf test his training sword against his shield and waited patiently until Wulfryk had again found that spot where the blade did not send shocks of vibrations up his arm.

Wulf was the one to break up their first round, because he sensed that Argis would just carry on at this sedate pace otherwise, waiting until his Thane was ready. He was feeling comfortable with his sword at that point and was eager to test his skill against that of his housecarl. The warriors walked back to where Lars was perched atop the low fence and the redhead held out both their waterskins. A small crowd had gathered behind him, the soldiers whispering and nudging each other's sides.

Wulf rinsed his mouth and drank and had Argis make a few last adjustments to his armour where one of the straps was digging into his side. The blond warrior slapped him on the back in a friendly fashion when he was done. Wulf could feel how the tension had seeped out of his housecarl, how he had grown more relaxed and assertive with each blow. He was obviously in his element. But the other Nord's serenity had an edge to it, the underlying readiness to spill blood.

"You ready to fight for real?" As if he had heard his Thane's thoughts.

Wulf grinned back. It wasn't going to be for real, of course, but he still felt the thrill of combat. He had only seen Argis fight once, briefly, and it had been dark with smoke stinging his eyes and his attention focused on their enemy. The Nord was praised by all his soldiers for his prowess, and Wulf was mostly just curious whether the man before him would live up to the tales he had heard.

The dark haired warrior was aware of the beat of his heart, the sweat that soaked into the leather on the hilt of his sword and the way Argis rolled his shoulders before hefting up his shield, giving his Thane a minuscule nod. The one moment of utter clarity was shattered in the next moment when nothing mattered anymore, nothing except for the Nord before Wulf and the naked, cold steel.

The first time they met it was cautious, almost a caress of Wulf's blade against Argis' sword accompanied by a faint rasp of metal. No man wanted to give the other any advantage, reveal too much too early. Fighting was like sex. Intimate. You had to know your partner, find out his reactions to your own actions. Preferably before they had figured you out, then your chances at surprising the other were better.

Even the goal was the same; stick them with something pointy.

Wulf grinned and though he received a raised eyebrow at his obvious amusement, the blond warrior was far too experienced to be distracted or daunted by his adversary laughing at him.

Wulf danced out of the way when Argis struck and angled his shield to deflect the backhanded return blow. The seax that Argis favoured and had several blunt replicas of was a powerful weapon combining the reach of a sword with the destructive power of a heavy axe. It was single edged, but he had the first third from the point sharpened on his seax; so he could harm an enemy on the backswing, should the mere weight of the weapon not suffice to get the job done. Wulfryk had learned to treat training weapons with the same caution reserved for real ones, and not only because they could break bones just as easily.

He retaliated with a low sweep that forced his opponent back a step and kept circling his housecarl. Somebody from the audience whistled loudly, but Wulf paid them no heed, his concentration on the warrior before him who matched each of his steps with one of his own, never breaking eye contact. They exchanged a few blows and separated again. Wulf was holding himself back and he sensed that Argis was doing the same.

This was supposed to be training only, and it was too easy to harm a partner if he reacted in a way you did not anticipate. Wulf shook his head; he was having difficulties turning off his thoughts, something that, thank the Divines, never was an issue when he was fighting for his life.

"How about we stop pretending?" Wulf asked, "Before I fall asleep."

Argis snorted and it sounded like he agreed.

In the next instant he had closed the distance between them and Wulf jumped to the side and kicked out; he didn't like being crowded by warriors bigger than him - only to hit air. Argis had withdrawn again, pulling his leg away in time, but the attack had not escaped him. That was one element of surprise wasted.

Argis didn't give either of them time to recover. He came back in, leading with his shield and Wulf found his way to the left blocked, opting for an evasion to the right. The dark haired Nord almost collided with Argis's shield when the warrior anticipated his move and only instinct made him turn in time to catch his housecarl's blade from the other side. His left open, Argis missed the chance to land the first hit when his shield soared past his Thane's shoulder, the other man having disengaged just quickly enough.

Wulf frowned when he realized he had been led on; a complete turnaround like that could not be a lucky coincidence. Not with a man of his housecarl's skill. For a man of his size and weight Argis was astonishingly light on his feet. And then the blond warrior apparently decided he had had enough. The seax in his hand was a blur and Wulf cursed as he was driven across the field, giving ground with every step. Argis was trying to back him into a corner, herding him across the grounds.

Wulf tried to get away as he had done before, and discovered that he could not, his opponent always one step ahead. He couldn't backpedal fast enough, left-arm growing numb from the blows he was forced to deflect, shards of wood flying through the air as Argis reduced his shield to timber.

But there was only so far Wulf let anybody push him. He stepped into the next attack, in the hope that his change of tactics would take his housecarl by surprise. It worked, insofar as he managed to block Argis' sword with a downward stroke, pinning it – and then his side exploded in a burst of white-hot pain as he received the shield's steel rim fully in the ribs. Wulf staggered back, winded and battered, and the pommel of the blonde warrior's sword soared an inch past his temple, close enough he could feel the air move. But it missed and that was all that mattered.

The housecarl's blade was still pointing downwards though and Wulfryk struck back, letting his sword glide over the topside of the seax, towards his opponent's throat. Argis almost ran himself into the other man's counter, stumbling backwards just in time. Wulf put his whole body into the next attack as he lashed out with his shield, giving everything he had, and more, the ferocious battle cry that Nords were feared for shattering the excited hush that had fallen over the field.

The impact was teeth-jarring, for both men, but did not entirely accomplish its purpose; Argis had gotten his own shield back up, although he was unbalanced for a moment and it cost him precious time, his succession of attacks broken.

Wulf had managed to disengage – but that was all. It was no victory at all.

Of course the Nord had the one or other trick up his sleeve, but he did not want to hurt his housecarl in earnest. This was, despite his bruised ego and ribs, just a game.

"Break?"

"Alright," Wulf panted and wished Argis would sound just a bit more winded.

The housecarl lowered the tip of his sword and came closer, resting a hand on his Thane's shoulder. He looked worried, a small frown between his brows. "How bad did I catch you?"

"Just a graze," Wulf replied and forced himself to relax despite the burning in his side. He did not think anything was broken, and his pride did not allow him to let on that he'd love nothing more than to curl up, moan and hold his side. Now when this was obviously some sort of trial. One he had passed, if he wasn't just imagining the spark of respect in his housecarl's one good eye.

Wulf received an enthusiastic round of cheers from the onlookers and smiled happily. The crowd had grown considerably, lining the outer perimeters of the training grounds. He had never noticed.

"Let's try something else."

Argis wanted to vary their sword play a bit and Wulf agreed to be the attacker in the first round. His housecarl was only allowed to defend himself and retaliate, but not to advance or strike first. Wulfryk spent the next minutes testing out his housecarl's defences, paying heed to how the other warrior reacted, but he had yet to spot a weakness. The obvious move would be to circle and aim for the Nord's blind side, but that was also where Argis' shield was and he was protecting it well.

It was as if all it took was for Wulf to think about making a move when he saw his housecarl's weight shift in answer, often as not before the actual strike. As the fight dragged on, Wulf found himself hopelessly outmatched. At some point he stopped and laughed, head thrown back and sword lowered. He could always play dirty, but that was not the aim of this exercise.

If it had been him standing with his shield up all the time his arm would have fallen off a good while ago. But Argis did not appear to tire. The shield was out and Wulf had no idea how to get past it. Argis never let his sword connect, either. He usually moved out of the way, let Wulf's blade pass before he struck it to knock it further astray. Wulf quickly felt himself tiring, having to always work against his housecarl's blocks that reversed the sword's momentum.

It was not a style suited to a messy skirmish where one did not have the luxury of focusing on a single foe and where the entire field of battle had to be overseen, but it was most effective in a formation where one stood with his comrades, where a blade in the back was not a danger, as well as in a one on one fight. As it would be if Argis ever had to defend somebody. It made sense, for a housecarl.

It also was not the kind of fighting Wulf had done. Most of his encounters had taken place against thugs in seedy dark alleyways or on the road and in the woods, where bandits sprung ambushes and archers tried to take you out from afar; to sum it up: where standing still was one's death sentence.

Argis remained immovable despite Wulf's best efforts to draw him out, to engage him in a more active combat. The housecarl fought as he did everything else; his actions sure and not one was wasted as he stuck to his designate goal.

They changed after a while when Wulfryk grew weary of the one-sidedness of the spar. What had worked for the blonde warrior did not for him, although Wulf didn't allow himself to be coerced into a defensive position like before. He did altogether well, kept Argis on his toes and he could see how it annoyed the housecarl, all the extra work he now had to do because his Thane would not let him close, turning constantly and changing their position. For the first time today Wulf saw his opponent tire and struggle to keep up, the other Nord's attacks decidedly slower and more measured than they had been at the beginning of their fight. He even scored a few minor hits when something brushed by his face.

Wulf came to his senses sitting on the ground, sword still in hand and white spots dancing in the perimeter of his vision. Argis was kneeling beside him.

"You alright?"

"Me? Yes." Wulf nodded, the dizziness already passed. Argis had not hit hard, but in the right place. "My ego not so much. How long was I out?"

"Just a second or two," Argis replied and offered his Thane a hand that Wulf gladly accepted. He cleared his throat, nonplussed and bent to pick up Wulfryk's discarded shield. "Thought you'd get that one," the housecarl said, half in explanation and half in apology and after a moment of thought, "You're good enough."

'Good enough'. Under different circumstances Wulf might have bristled at the words, but given that he had been knocked out and flat on his ass just a moment ago, it might be the wrong time to mouth off. Besides, he was too tired to begin an argument over something that from anybody else would have been an insult. That, and he didn't want to end up being a knot. And crippled one at that.

Wulfryk was all the more surprised when he received a roaring bout of applause from the spectators who had watched the fight.

"Ya did well!" Lars shouted and clapped him on the back, like being knocked out was some great achievement. Stranger still, apparently his friends shared the sentiment. Wulf awkwardly nodded his thanks at a few soldiers who approached him tentatively, offering congratulations.

"But...I lost," Wulf said quietly and began to unfasten the straps of his brigantine. He had to admit to being confused about the whole matter. He'd barely stayed ahead of Argis' attacks in the bout before, he had not been able to break through the warrior's block and the last round had been a total fiasco. Wulf wondered if this was some elaborate joke being played on him.

"Yeah," Lars agreed like he had expected nothing else. "But ya lasted longer than Ian did last year." Then the soldier turned to the blonde warrior who was standing slightly to the side, wiping his face and chest with his shirt.

His armour and padding hung from the fence, to dry in the cold, pale autumn sun and he came over to help his Thane out of his mail.

Wulf waved him off, bent down and planted his palms firmly on the ground, and when he lifted his legs into a handstand, the shirt of chainmail pooled neatly around his hands. Lars' eyes boggled and Wulf grinned. Uncared-for street urchins had a broad repertoire of useless but entertaining tricks; and Wulf was somewhat of a collector of those.

Argis was staring too, but not at Wulf's little stunt. When his Thane was standing again, he pulled one eyebrow up. "Just a graze, eh?"

Wulf's shirt had ridden up, exposing his blue side with a bloody welt almost two hands wide where the metal rim of the shield had pushed into the flesh. Even the riveting was visible, in its black and purple, swollen detail. "You didn't break anything," Wulf replied defensively and pulled the cloth down to cover the bruising. He'd die before he'd let on how much that bitch blow still hurt.

"That deserves a drink," Argis stated and Wulf could only agree.

"Now that you mention it – I'm thirsty."

"Me too," Lars chimed in.

"You can buy your own drink, you lazy piece of _goðr fyr vætr_ ," Argis grunted and dropped his armour in his friend's arms for him to carry while the housecarl took their swords and shields. They put away their gear and Wulf and Argis made a brief detour to Vlindrel Hall to change into clothes that were not soaked in sweat. Lars waited for them outside of the tavern, but not the one Argis had led Wulf to on their first night out.

Lars spread his arms wide, performing a comic bob that would never pass as a bow. "Welcome to tha 'Shed."

"Uhhh… ," Argis sounded like he just had second thoughts. "It's not a fancy place," he muttered somewhat abashed.

Lars did not share any of the housecarl's doubts, pushing the crooked doors wide open. "No worries. Things don't get rough until it's late and everyone's drunk."

"I can handle rough," Wulf replied with no small amount of amusement. Nothing on Nirn could ever top the experience of Trenus' Lost Wench dive bar.

The tavern was indeed plain, but it had the certain well-lived in, welcoming air that beckoned to the Nord immediately. Wulf had learned to find the likes of it, as a visit to an establishment that was mostly frequented by the locals usually paid off. He felt right at home as he took his place at one of the better tables. They were in very good sight of the bar and close enough to the fireplace to be warm without being uncomfortably hot, and out of the way of the general hubbub. Nobody would accidentally spill ale over their heads because he had been pushed. Argis got their drinks, and despite his earlier words he came back with three tankards.

Wulf immediately knew why the inn was so popular when he tried his mead. Honningbrew was a sour swill by comparison to the smooth, rich beverage that held a faint hint of spices. Lars laughed at his surprised face and turned to the warrior sitting opposite them.

"Oy, Argis! I been thinkin'. Maybe Wulf should join tha _Leikrvíg_?

"What's that?" Wulf asked, detaching himself from his mug only for as long as it took him to speak. It sounded grand, so he guessed Lars wasn't covertly trying to get him into some training course.

The soldier responded to his question with a look of disbelief. "Can't believe ya ain't heard of it! Tha spring tournament, biggest event in tha Reach!"

"I want to join," Wulf decided. A tournament sounded like it would be lots of fun.

"Not sure it's a good idea," Argis responded, his gaze locked on the contents of his tankard.

"Why?" Wulf asked, a bit too sharply.

"There are challenges," the housecarl explained, looking up. "You win, you get points. If you have enough of them, you can enter a certain class in the _Leikrvíg_. You are a Thane. If anything, you should fight for the highest _virðing_ – the highest class. But to allow you in just because you are a Thane..." He didn't finish, but shrugged and the motion conveyed what he thought of that.

"I see." Wulf did. He could probably bully his way into the competition whereas the other warriors had worked hard to be accepted. Since he had arrived recently he would have trouble catching up on the 'points'. "How many classes are there?" he wanted to know from Argis who seemed well-informed in the matter.

"Four," the housecarl replied, using his fingers to count them out. "Highest one is for the Champions, _Rekkr_ for the warriors is second _,_ third is for those who seek fame and-"

"And fourth for those who won't find it," Lars snorted.

"Then there is one for the _karla_ , for all men and women who wish to join and can afford the entry fee; an open round so to say," Argis continued smoothly. "There's glory to be had there as well and there's always somebody who is good for a surprise. But you are obligated to start for Markarth; and a double entry is not allowed."

"Hmm." Wulf rubbed his side unconsciously while he thought about all he had been told. "What's wrong with the warriors?"

"Nothin'," Lars hurriedly threw in. "And everybody will know that ya can't fight in tha _Kappi_. Better to fight for tha second than not at all. Plus, if ya make it into the best four, ya'll get a try at becoming a Champion next year."

Argis was nodding thoughtfully at the last part. "We will have to set you up a score table," he told Wulf while Lars turned around and beckoned animatedly to somebody behind them.

Wulf spotted the group of soldiers, and Pike and Theryn amongst them and waved while the redhead left them to join the arrivals. "What does that mean?"

"It means warriors will challenge you. Or you can challenge them. The better they are, the more points it will earn you. If you come to a draw with an opponent, you both lose. If you lose, your score doesn't change, but your opponent gets the point."

Wulf nodded, everything sounded pretty straightforward to him. Issue challenges, win and rise through the ranks. He could do that. "Can I refuse a challenge?"

"If you are wounded. Otherwise it'll cost you points. Halof," here Argis pointed at the innkeeper, "He keeps half of the ledgers for our competitors."

"Only half of them?"

"Of course," the other warrior snorted. "To prevent the other shits from cheating."

"Oh." There went Wulf's hopes of taking the easy way. "Who keeps the other half?"

"The steward. You will have to tell him if you really want to compete."

"Yeah." Wulf was sure. "I do." He had never fought in a tourney before, though he had dreamt of doing so many times. Back when he had been too young and stupid to understand how the world worked. Then something in the way Argis had phrased his sentence caught on. " _Our competitors_?" As in contrast to-

Argis grunted. "We; and I mean you and me and most of the soldiers; we compete for the Jarl, the glory of Markarth and our own honour."

Wulf tilted his head, intrigued. "Who's the rival?"

"The Silver-Bloods," Argis' voice had dropped to a growl, his eyes narrowing. The good one burned with an intense hatred, golden like the flame in the hearth. "They hire mercenaries and support the outsiders, soldiers of fortune and adventurers. They pay the entry fees on loan. Last year they sponsored a man named Atar, he even won the free round. Any man could live for the rest of his live in comfort after that. But now he has to work for them. You know what they say? Sooner the silver veins of the Reach will run dry than you will pay off your debts with a Silver-Blood. Watch out for them."

"I will. Thank you." What his housecarl said bordered on sedition and Wulf was sure he would have made no mention of it if it was just a trivial matter. He would keep the warning well in mind, for once. "So. What do you think? Do I stand a chance?"

Wulf almost felt offended by how long it took before Argis answered. "Won't be easy. You have to catch up on the challenges, but if you can make it into the first round...Yes." He sounded confident. They turned to their drinks for a while, until Argis broke the silence again. "If I may ask, who taught you?"

Wulf gave him a wistful half-smile. "Nobody in particular. Just a bunch of guards. Life took care of the rest." He really did not want to explain what that entailed. Wulf did his best to be of good cheer when he enquired, "Where did I go wrong?" It stung, but if he wanted to get better he'd have to ask somebody to help him get there.

"I think you just need practice," the housecarl replied straight away, this time without having to ponder over the question.

Wulf nodded, he hadn't had much of that lately. Not since before Dustman's cairn. Sure, he had trained a bit with the Companions afterwards, but they had been so overwhelmed with missions, most of the time was spent travelling. Then there had been a brief amount of time when he had, in fact trained, but Ria had not been much of a challenge and Lydia had been forced to stop because of her pregnancy all too soon. What came after he cared to think about even less than his iniquitous past.

"I guess we have plenty of time to work on that." Wulf was giving the other man a gracious way out. The housecarl could always claim his duties to the Jarl, his soldiers and Markarth kept him too busy.

But Argis surprised him by smiling. "We do."

Wulf knocked his tankard against the other warrior's. "Where do we start?"

"When I train most of the recruits," Argis began, "I teach them from scratch. Can't do that with somebody who's been fighting for a long time. You don't follow any style that I know, which isn't a bad thing, 'cause it's effective." He paused for a moment before resuming. "But your forms aren't clean. That can be good or bad, depending on the circumstances. Your balance is good, not many tells. Makes it hard to guess what's coming next. You almost got me with that crazy manoeuvre." He was shaking his head before he was finished.

Wulf sighed and spared a look at the soot-darkened ceiling. "Didn't do me much good in the end."

"That's because if somebody presses you hard, you have to break them early and not wait until you get pushed around and tire. Retreating means you're off balance. Which is why I would begin by building a strong defence."

Wulf nodded in agreement. He had been relying on magic too much to even out the odds. And he had faced exactly the same problem before.

Argis stretched and leaned back and his expression came as close to a smirk as Wulf had seen. "I have to say, I thought I'd get you earlier."

"Well. You can get me another mead," Wulf suggested and lifted his empty tankard.

Argis chuckled and rested his hand on Wulf's shoulder in a way that was just the tiniest bit too tense to be friendly. "I can do that."

 

xxxx

 

They did just as they had agreed, and Argis instructed his Thane almost daily in the training ring. First the housecarl taught the other Nord how not to catch blows frontally but to deflect them, to let the opponent's blade slide right off, and how to control where the deflected blow was going. Wulfryk knew the principles, and he quickly improved, a sure sign that these lessons were nothing new, that the warrior was just refreshing old memories.

They proceeded by finding ways to mess with an attacker by withdrawing or closing in enough that he missed his centre of percussion. If somebody received a proper shock, he could be easier disarmed – if he could hold on to his sword that was. It was tricky, because it involved some guessing and intuitive feel for the opponent.

About a week into their routine, Argis pulled out a couple of Forsworn weapons for them to practice on as well. He was quite surprised when his Thane used the spikes to in his favour, ripping the sword out of his hands a scarce few minutes into their fight.

"The Forsworn are better at fighting with those things than me," Argis admonished, "So watch out."

Wulfryk just grinned, until a new voice spoke up close to them.

"Thane?" The warrior who had addressed Wulfryk bowed his head respectfully. He had a plain face and brown hair, his clothes as ordinary as they could be. "I am Aðalsveinn, and I would be honoured to cross my blade with yours."

"Um." Argis' Thane looked to him, as if for confirmation of what he was to do now.

"He's challenging you," the housecarl clarified. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

The cocky grin returned to Wulfryk's face within an instant. "In that case I'm happy to oblige."

"Wait." Argis stepped between them and held out his hand. "Sword."

The challenger blinked in surprise but handed his blade over to the housecarl without an argument. Argis inspected the edge and found it had been properly taken down. He grunted his approval and handed the weapon back.

Wulfryk took the opportunity to approach him and quietly asked, "What are the rules?"

"Basically anything's allowed, except for magic," Argis explained while keeping a close eye on the other contestant as he warmed up. "You can kick, but if you break somebody's knee or ankle or maim them in any other way except with your sword or bare hands you're disqualified for this and the next year and will have to pay for their healing in full, so better think twice."

Wulfryk nodded first, then frowned, "If I break his legs with my sword?"

"Go for it!" Argis encouraged. That would mean one competitor less for the actual tourney. "As long as he doesn't surrender, it's his loss. Also, don't flaunt what you can do," the he advised with a subtle nod towards the spectators. "I bet there's a whole bunch of them watching, wishing to seize you up." The housecarl could keep anybody who was not a guard out during regular training hours – these were military grounds, after all, but not during an official match. "The faster you can finish this one off, the better."

"No worries." Wulfryk shot him a smile that was full of self-confidence and strode out to meet his challenger.

A few cheers rang out from the gathered soldiers, and Argis stepped out of the ring, though he remained alert. The other warrior had been courteous enough, but one move beyond what was allowed and he was going to bury his axe in the other Nord's skull.

Somebody had already informed Halof and he as well as another Nord that Argis recognized as Borgulf, a palace guard who would probably report to Raerek straight away were standing as judges. Whoever had set this match up had gone to great lengths to ensure Argis and his Thane learned of it last.

The fight began as most did, slowly, and with both sides erring on the side of caution. It did not continue thus for long, though. Wulfryk took the offensive right from the start, but after a week of sparring with the dark haired warrior Argis knew that his Thane was barely exerting himself. He gained the upper hand after an exchange of blows that was as laborious as it was tedious. The only thing remarkable about the bout was how exceptionally unremarkable it was. Aðalsveinn fought like he looked and none of the sides apparently cared to do as much as move their feet.

It was the challenger's undoing, when Wulfryk knocked him off balance with a blow that wasn't particularly well-placed. He backhanded the other warrior's sword hand and the man dropped his blade with a pained grunt when the metal-enforced wood struck his arm. Wulfryk then brought the match to a swift end with his sword resting against the other Nord's neck.

Borgulf whistled with two fingers in his mouth and pointed towards the Thane, not even bothering to announce the victor. Argis joined the cheering and entered the ring to stand by Wulfryk's side, lest the loser do something stupid.

Aðalsveinn picked his sword up with a sour expression, but the warrior did not forget his manners and gave another short bow before he turned to leave. "Well fought, my Thane." At least he knew how to take defeat.

"Thank you," Wulfryk replied, "Likewise." To Argis he whispered, "That was too easy."

Argis grunted his assent. It was one of the most average, boring, by-the-books fights he had ever witnessed. Inwardly he congratulated his Thane on proving to be such a bland, uninspiring defender.

The housecarl frowned at the retreating man's back and the few onlookers that dispersed now that the excitement was over. He had been right from the start, and hopefully this bout would pacify the opposition, convince them that the Thane was not to be taken too seriously. He would further have to make sure the future challenges would be issued by his soldiers. "This was one of the Silver-Blood men."

His Thane followed his gaze, making a soft _hmm_ sound. "You don't like the Silver-Bloods?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral

"Yeah. And they don't like me right back."

 oooo

That evening they celebrated Wulfryk's first victory in the 'Shed. Many of the soldiers were excited about having the new Thane compete 'for them' and were backing him enthusiastically. Halof went as far as giving Wulfryk a free tankard of a beverage of his choice, a rather generous gesture from the temperamental veteran and Lars was proudly introducing the Thane to his friends.

Drinking was also a good way to kill time. With every day that passed, Argis expected to hear some news from Brigge, but he had been disappointed so far.

"Are you in the tournament?" Argis' hand was on his axe when the man popped up beside him to talk loudly in his ear. The housecarl had to turn around in his seat to be able to look his Thane in the face. The Nord stood leaning against the table and Halof's free mead wasn't the only one he'd had.

"Yeah. Got to be."

Somebody behind Wulf laughed out loud. Lars had come to join them, already well past 'tipsy'. "He makes it this year, he'll be champion fourth time in a row. The best warrior before was Jolsung Bloodblade and he only won twice in succession, some forty years ago, and returned five years later to win for a third time."

"So you're defending your title," Wulfryk mused, followed by, "What does the champion get as a prize, anyway?"

Argis wished Lars had managed to keep his yap shut, not something that happened often. He twirled his mug between his big hands, uncomfortable with the topic, because there was no way for him to avoid such a direct question and wasn't a liar. He cleared his throat. "Forty thousand Septims"

Wulfryk lost his balance and fell over, but he caught the table's edge in time to pull himself up again and stared at his housecarl with wide eyes and an open mouth. "Talos' balls!"

"What's the total prize money?"

Argis sighed. It wasn't like he had held onto the money, putting almost all of it into better equipment for his soldiers. "About a hundred thousand Septims," he responded. "It's a wager between the Jarl Igmund and Thongvor. The one whose champion loses, pays."

Wulfryk whistled and squatted on his heels, his chin resting in his crossed arms as he blinked up at his housecarl. "No wonder they don't like you."

Argis did not bother replying. He knew how much his actions had hurt the Reaches most influential family, and it was a matter of more than what amounted to the loss of roughly a million in gold. But the past could not be changed and he regretted very few of the choices he had made. As long as he could keep it and the assassins away from his Thane, all would be well.

An hour or two later the celebrations were coming to an end, the party winding down with some of the participants passed out on the benches. Soldiers would take anything as a reason to get shitfaced. Wulfryk was yawning into the crook of his elbow and though eyes were glazed he appeared to be rather steady on his feet – compared to some others.

Argis picked up both his and his Thane's coat when he heard Halof call his name. "Argis!"

The housecarl paused and waited for the other man to catch up. He noticed that the innkeeper's limp was more pronounced, and he was breathing hard. The veteran's hand landed heavily on his forearm.

"A messenger has just arrived. It's Rolf and he says it's important!"

"Are you coming?" Wulfryk called with an impatient gesture of his hands towards the door.  

"I'm sorry," Argis apologized to his Thane and handed him his coat. "But something just came up...I might take a while longer."

"Sure," Wulfryk replied easily and swung the garment over his shoulders with a flourish.

"My Thane-"

Wulfryk cut him short. "Good night, Sunshine."

Lars who had come over in the meantime and was wobbling drunkenly on his feet slung one arm over Argis' shoulders for support. "I don't," the redhead hiccup there, "I don't think he likes when ya call 'im that."


	61. HT

The next day the sky was a light aquamarine blue with only wisps of clouds caught in the high peaks of the Druadachs; white crowns for the equally white mountaintops. Where he sat in a nook in front of his old house, the sun-warmed stone radiating heat at his back, Argis was warm enough in only a sleeveless vest. True, he was well hidden from the occasional gust of wind that made the wilting flowers overhead dance wildly in the breeze and their late petals rain down on him, blood red drops the only splash of colour against the blinding white of Markarth's masonry.

Argis drummed his fingers on the rough wood of the old bench and two shapes pounced at them, bumped into each other and skittered back into their hiding place behind the wood. The third kitten was still viciously attacking his shoelaces, getting them tangled into an ever-larger knot. Argis picked it up by the scruff of its neck and held it up. The creature meowed pitifully and tapped the housecarl on the nose. He'd make a good mouser one day Argis thought and deposited the little rascal next to its siblings, only for the three of them to tumble to the ground.

Argis smiled at their frolics, their clumsy gait, short crooked legs and bristling tails raised high and let the tips of his fingers peek over the benches edge, three pairs of white-socked feet following. The new owner of the house had complained and threatened to drown them in the river. Argis had asked him politely if he wanted the housecarl to return the favour. He had not heard as much as a word of protest since, and Prowl continued to live in the wooden box Hákan had fashioned for her with her litter of four.

The proud mother was lying stretched out in a sunny spot, enjoying the break from her four little rascals, ears and tail twitching lazily.

Argis let his head sink against the wall and closed his eyes, the light and heat making him pleasantly drowsy, for he had been up long into the night yesterday.

 oooo

"Oi!" Wulfryk had been gone for a whole twenty seconds and Argis' second had barely made it through the door before Lars was already choking the life out of him. "Rolf! Ya alright?"

It took the flustered man a while to disentangle himself and Argis scooped up the mug of spiced mead Halof put down on the table and ordered a hot tea for his friend instead. Rolf didn't take well to alcohol. He could get as shitfaced as he wanted to and Argis would even help him get there, but _after_ he'd completed his report.

"How did it go?" he asked when Rolf's face no longer was the shade of a ripe plum and Lars was giggling to himself in the corner seat.

The soldier rubbed the palm of his hand over his unshaven chin, but managed a tired smile. "Like you planned," he said and, already used to his commander's quirks, quickly got down to what he knew had to be driving Argis insane. "We lost five men – two recruits, Hran and Aletta from the first unit died in battle and Torgeir from his injuries and there's a score or so injured, but only a few critical ones. We were lucky. They weren't expecting us and we cleaned out the camps." That was about as far as the good news went, the Argis could tell by his expression alone. "It was...nasty," Rolf continued and all the cheer drained out of him, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. The housecarl could barely hear his hushed voice over the din in the tavern. "They had women and children."

Argis patted the other man on the back. He knew how bad things could get, but orders were orders and sparing the enemy only meant that this conflict would drag on for so much longer.

"Fuck, I hate killing kids," Rolf choked out with a wet harsh sound, not quite a sob but not quite a curse either. Something between the two and there really was nothing Argis could do or say to make it better. But Rolf was not a man given to depression. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly collecting himself. "Anyway," he said, "Brigge wants you to know we found out about of one of their winter retreats."

Argis took the offered change of topic and didn't push. They all felt like shit after one of those missions, but it was nothing time, mead and friends could not cure. He'd been there, and so had Rolf. "Where is it?"

"To the south of Markarth," the other man replied, calmer now that he could focus on something else. "The prisoners we interrogated called it the 'Dead Crone's Rock'."

"Could they mean the Hag's Rock?" Argis asked. He knew of the valley, and that said place was overrun by the Forsworn. Now that the soldiers had been successful it was the closest encampment to Markarth they had. But sheer distance was meaningless in the Reach, where the land was divided by mountain ranges which conveniently kept the city safe and prevented the Forsworn from moving in greater numbers.

"I don't know," Rolf answered. "Truth is, we really could have used you and your reputation. The sons of goats didn't want to talk, but Brigge thinks there might be more to it. Maybe he's gotten one of them to spill the beans by now," he said. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

"Ah, sod it." Argis took a deep swallow from his tankard while he turned the situation over in his mind. He saw that Lars had falled asleep with his head pillowed on his arms and was drooling on the table, and snorted. "We can't attack the Redoubt," Argis said and his friend nodded in agreement. "It's too defensible. But... ," the housecarl began and paused, because he already didn't like where this idea was going. He didn't, however, have a better one. "If we cross the mountains, we could come up on them from the east."

"Yeah, but we won't _make_ it over them in time," Rolf pointed out. "Frost Fall is coming to an end. If the weather breaks while we're crossing, we're done for."

"You just came back," Argis reminded him softly. "You deserve some rest."

"I can rest just fine while we wait for the others," Rolf argued sullenly.

His friends were a gift from Akatosh himself. The housecarl did not know what he had done to deserve such loyalty, but after so many years Argis knew that he couldn't talk them out of following him if they insisted on being such pig-heads. "We can't take too many with us. And with not enough soldiers we can't fight."

"So what do we do?"

"We get a few people together and see what this Dead Crone's Rock is," Argis decided. "Either way, the Forsworn will be stuck there, and if they think we don't know about them, they'll stay. It's not like they can move in winter. And we only need to cross the mountains once. If the weather changes, we'll simply take the long way back. Following the river should take us close to that Orc stronghold. Then, once we're back, we can make plans for the spring campaigns."

"So it's just scouting, then?"

"Looks like it," the housecarl replied thoughtfully.

"What do we tell the Jarl?" Rolf asked. If he had sounded relieved earlier, it was gone now.

Argis finished his mead and rested his hands on the stained surface of the table, fingers interlaced. "Your job is to find us a guide crazy enough to brave the passes this late in the year," he closed the matter for tonight. "Let me worry about Igmund."

 oooo

He still had not decided what he would tell the Jarl. First he needed to talk to Brigge. While loyal to Igmund, everything the Jarl heard would also, through servants and guards gossiping, whispers in the dark and ears pressed against cracks in the stone where they shouldn't be, inherently make its way to Thongvor.

Sometimes not knowing was the Jarl's greatest advantage against the enemies he did not know he had.

Argis would, however, have to tell Wulfryk. He'd just come out with the news in the evening over dinner and a mug of his homemade mountain pine spirit, when his Thane was at his most agreeable. That he could devise this tactic was a testament to how much time they had spent together lately. Most of it training since Wulfryk habitually slept in until midday. At least the other Nord was almost always game for a spar. He might grumble and complain when Argis got him to work out, but he kept up with the housecarl, competitive to the point where the training only ended when one of them broke down with cramps. If they kept it up, then that someone might become Argis. The warrior grinned at the thought and flicked a kitten's tail, making it whirl around and attack its unsuspecting littermate.

And then there were the evenings in the Hall, a house that had been too big and empty for one man but was beginning to feel just a little bit crowded with two and Argis honestly couldn't say what disquieted him more; how easily he had grown used to his Thane's company, or how often he wanted to strangle him with that stray sock that Wulfryk just couldn't be bothered to put away.

Thinking about Thane didn't make Argis' small, wistful smile wilt like a flower in the first frost of Ysmir's Breath, but if his heart beat that bit faster, he was willing to attribute it to anticipating Wulfryk's less than gracious outburst when he learned he'd have to cross a mountain range in winter.

 

xxxx

 

Wulf had been aimlessly strolling through the twisting alleys around the lower quarters of Markarth for most of the day when the idea struck him to check in with Moth to see about his armour's progress. He took the less direct route through the market and up the river that ran through the city. The water looked as beautiful as it had to be cold, a luminous turquoise in colour, in the upper parts where the filth from the smelters had not yet been washed in. Wulf wondered why all the terraces were built on such high pillars when the stone channel wasn't even half full, but before he could contemplate that peculiarity in more detail, somebody called out to him.

It was no other than Ghorza, Moth's sister, who - according to herself - was much better at working with light materials. She was happy to show him the sketches and the beginning of what would become his armour and then took a few more measurements before Wulf left her to her work.

Rather pleased that he wouldn't have to climb all the very steep stairs from here up to the keep, Wulfryk decided to venture further into a part of the city yet unknown to him on his way back. He slipped into a narrow alley to put a row of houses between him and the waterfront and ambled along it, keeping the river to his right. It was rather easy to get turned around in Markarth if one didn't pay attention to one's wandering feet and in every cliff there were stairs that led up and a couple of times Wulf had landed on somebody's front porch when he came to an unexpected dead end. The last time it had happened an elderly woman, flattered by the Thane's unscheduled appearance, had promptly poured him a cup of camomile infusion and they had sat on two chairs that barely fit on the miniscule patio, overlooking the haggling of merchants below, and talking about the weather, mostly.

This time it was the glint of sunlight that made Wulf's head turn on impulse. A man sat in a secluded spot between two houses, bent forward and with his elbows resting on his knees. His shield had reflected the light and as Wulf took another step, the side street opening up, he caught a glimpse of dirty blonde hair in braids framing a face he couldn't see because the guy was looking at something in the other direction. Wulfryk impromptu took the turn. A moment later he recognized the motif on the shield and grinned because he had known the Nord's muscular arms looked familiar.

It was a nice location Argis had chosen, a small stream flowing through its shallow bed on the street's edge.

Behind the housecarl there was a low house over which the wooden galleries of the two-storey buildings on either side towered. The result was a cozy, secluded niche and the house was close enough to the pier that Wulf was sure its windows overlooked the river and Ghorza's waterwheel. The sound of water – falling, churning, gurgling, was ever present. Soothing, if one did not mind the constant noise, but it certainly was more idyllic than listening to Mulash abuse his workers.

Argis looked as if he belonged there, picking tiny claws out of his legs. As luck would have it, Wulf approached from the left, but his presence was announced when a tabby cat hissed at him and, following their mother's lead, her kittens bristled like brushes before they scattered as fast as their legs could carry them, colliding in their hurry to get away.

Argis looked after them with a frown then shrugged and smiled up at his Thane. "They're a bit wild."

Wulf raised an eyebrow at the housecarl. "I did not know you liked cats." After all one of the larger ones had whet its claws upon the man's face.

"It's good to have a mouser," Argis replied with a shrug and scooted over to make room for Wulf, who sank down on the sun-warmed bench with a sigh of contentment. "What are you doing in these parts of the city?"

"Exploring," Wulf answered and tried to make it sound as daring as he could.

Argis chuckled and in his fashion did not comment. The burden to carry the brunt of the conversation did, as was its wont, lie with Wulf, but by now he no longer even minded. Argis' grunts and monosyllabic answers were something he had grown accustomed to. It had been over the course of the days that followed their first spar that Wulf discovered the most fascinating thing and, in the same instant, found an answer to why his housecarl always was so brusque. He was not unapproachable or standoffish, he just _did not like to talk_.

 oooo

Wulf had read out loud a book he had been pawned by a local drunk to make up for the man's inability to pay the debt he owned Wulf over a rigged game of cards. Wulfryk felt particularly magnanimous that day because the man's pathetic efforts at cheating – six aces, really!? – had been almost as entertaining to watch as it was to take out the game's other participants.

Argis had been dicing what was to become their dinner. He was as focused on the task at hand as he was on everything else that he did, be it fighting or repairing his gear, and he neither looked up nor commented until at last Wulf gave up on trying to evoke a reaction from his housecarl and proceeded to read in silence. When he next chanced a glimpse in Argis' direction, it was because the other Nord had stopped chopping up innocent vegetables.

Knife in hand and half the carrots still intact, the housecarl's piercing gaze was trained on his Thane. "Go on."

"I thought you weren't listening," Wulf replied defensively.

A furrow appeared between Argis' brows. "I was."

"Well, you never said anything."

Argis huffed and gave the knife a spin, its tip drilling into the wood underneath. "Isn't that the _point_ of listening?"

"If you put it that way... " It kind of made sense, too. Wulf glared at the book in his lap and asked, "Where did I stop?"

"Faloan was bargaining away his heart and soul," Argis said and then cited, " _Thus was brokered to the witch: his heart, his will, his humanity_." He had been paying attention.

More so than Wulf who, feeling a faint flush in his cheeks, cleared his throat and continued. After a brief moment the sound of Argis' knife hitting the wooden cutting board commenced.

 oooo

Wulf remembered the satisfaction that came with the realization and the hope that maybe the other Nord saw something more him than a useless encumbrance. He'd done his best to keep up in their fights and had even managed to get the upper hand a couple of times, but he could already tell that Argis was far more dedicated to his housecarling than Lydia had been. Wulf was sure he wouldn't be rid of the man if he told him to leave. Not that he wanted to do that. Argis wasn't a conversationalist, but the sight of his naked, sweating chest when they sparred more than made up for that particular character fault.

"What earth-shattering matter kept you up yesterday?" Wulfryk asked and tried to think of something other than chest hair and all those heavy muscles, and how they would feel under his hands. Sweet Dibella, but he needed to get laid.

"One of my men came back," Argis replied. He had the look of a man about to say something Wulf wasn't going to like and true to that observation Argis announced, "The Jarl will want us out one last time before winter."

"Dammit," Wulf cursed and scratched his chin before something inappropriate about Igmund could slip out. At least the topic was enough of a mood-killer to put any stray dirty thoughts of the man next to him right out of his head. "How much time do we have?" he asked, resigning himself to the fact that yet again he would have the joyous experience of traipsing through Skyrim's idyllic winter landscape.

"Until the soldiers come back and give me a full report," Argis answered. "I guess we've got about a week to kill."

"Better it than me." Wulf stretched and winced; his stiff muscles were still aching from their last workout. Or maybe it was the one before or... perhaps they had all stacked, one atop the other, in one giant heap of soreness that he was now enjoying the full effect of. "I think you did me in last week. Several times." When he caught his housecarl giving him the once-over, Wulf winked.

"You're awfully chipper for someone who's supposed to be dead," Argis remarked, deadpan.

Wulf took the bait. It wasn't often that his housecarl initiated banter, but it was happening more frequently now. "Dead and decomposing, if you want to know," the dark haired Nord stated and turned his face upwards, to better catch the sunlight. He closed his eyes. "I do take joy in the fact that it's of my own free will, not because _the Jarl_ told me so."

Argis chuckled. He had a dark sense of humour, Wulf had been pleased to find out. "Hey." The blonde warrior nudged his Thane's knee with his own. "It could be fun. You ever climb a frozen waterfall?"

"No. Neither have I ridden a horker sidesaddle," Wulf retorted and cracked open one eye. "Just because I haven't had the opportunity to do something cretinous and possibly hazardous to my health doesn't mean I'm burning up for the opportunity to do so."

Argis was quiet for a moment, then, "I smell bullshit on that, my Thane."

"Yeah." Wulf grinned. It sounded awesome. "Can you really do that?" he asked eagerly. "Climb a frozen waterfall? Seems rather im–... improbable." Since the comeback of dragons he had sworn not to taunt fate any more than was absolutely necessary to keep up with his image. His new dashing, hagraven-slaying, Forsworn-fighting, tourney-competing and shield-retrieving Markarth image, not the one he had left behind in Whiterun.

"Sure." Argis appeared excited at the prospect.

The idiot was going to kill him. Wulf just knew it. Yet here was, grinning at the prospect, when he should visit the healers and have his skull checked for fractures. "Aren't you supposed to keep me away from danger?" he enquired and then quickly rephrased his question. "Or keep the danger away from me, as it is?"

Argis gave a noncommittal shrug in answer and didn't seem worried over the thought of his Thane's impending untimely demise.

"If you get me killed before my thirtieth nameday I'll be very cross," Wulf remarked because he simply couldn't allow the silence to set in now, not when they were going along to well. This was amongst the longest talks they had shared.

The blond warrior sat up a bit straighter at the news. "When's that?"

Wulf was surprised, but also slightly flattered by the serious expression on the other man's face. It was... nice, he decided. Having somebody who cared, or at least appeared to. "Why, Sunshine, you got something planned?" It wasn't that he didn't want to tell Argis, he simply didn't know. Sometime between this winter and the next he'd be older than he ever thought he would be and on top of that he couldn't figure out how to feel about it.

What he _did_ know was how that had just sounded. And if he could hear the pitch in his own voice, he was sure Argis did as well. Flirting was all very nice, though not quite as much fun when the other person did not reciprocate. "So, how did it go, yesterday?" Wulf enquired, hoping to distract the housecarl from his blatant advances.

The change of topic had the desired effect of immediately sobering Argis up. "We lost three people that I knew," he replied quietly. "Not well, but... by name. I visited their families today."

"Shit." The word was out before Wulf's brain caught up to his mouth. "I'm sorry." This was awkward. He swung his legs, banging his heels against the wall behind them.

Argis sighed deeply, shoulders heaving. "It's alright." He looked away and when after a goodly while he turned back to Wulfryk, his expression was serious. More so than when they had been discussing dead comrades.

_Uh-oh._

"Look, I want this to work out."

"What's 'this', pray tell?" Wulf asked guardedly. Apart from being something he did not want to discuss, obviously.

Argis' laugh was a bit too sharp to be amused. "Fuck if I know." He made a vague gesture with his hands. If they had been playing mime Wulf's guess would have been anything from a hog to the empress' corselet. "The whole _thing_. With you and me."

"If this is some weird Reacher proposal, at least have the decency to buy me a drink first," Wulf muttered in an attempt to lighten the mood and because this sounded so very much like having a chat about relationships – which he wasn't doing, by the way – that he immediately wanted to kill off that particular exchange.

To his surprise and immense relief Argis didn't take offence, but barked out a laugh that seemed to take the housecarl as much by surprise as it did his Thane. "Nah," he said after a while, still chortling. "I'd need the priests of Stendarr before the year is out."

"Justice? What for?" If Wulf was confused, it was the other Nord's fault.

"Not justice," Thane Wulfryk," Argis clarified. "Mercy. For your poor, doomed soul, full of indolence, disorder and dirty laundry."

That hurt physically, but was Wulf laughing too hard to care. It reminded him of the time he had four broken ribs and Thrynn had just kept the bad jokes coming until he'd been laughing and crying both up to the point when he could no longer tell whether it was from the teasing or the pain. He'd passed out eventually, with the other man's hand in his pants. Shit. Those were some memories Wulf hadn't revisited for almost a decade.

He cast Argis a beaming smile over his shoulder and hoped the other man had not noticed the lapse.

"So." Apparently Argis was not easy to dissuade. That, or he was totally oblivious to clues. "Is that a _yes_?" The housecarl's lips twisted into a wry half-smile. It had something self-mocking about it, but scars and disillusionment aside, it was also damned alluring.

"It's a _maybe_ ," Wulfryk sniffed and swallowed past the sudden tightness in his chest. "At best."

 oooo

On the morning of the next day Wulf watched Argis repair the hilt of his training sword. The housecarl was tearing away the old crumbling leather while his Thane paced restlessly, wondering if he could worm his way out of training without losing face. He'd been only half-joking yesterday. 'Dead on his feet' was not the ideal condition for Wulf to be in when they headed out of Markarth to combat whatever Skyrim deigned to throw at them next.

Wulf came to a stop suddenly, remembering an offer he'd been made shortly after his – arguably – unfortunate rise to Thanehood. He let his chin rest on Argis' shoulder, if only because he enjoyed watching the other Nord jump. He had to keep the man on his toes, after all. "What are you doing?" Wulf asked as if he had not been right there the entire time.

"Working," Argis replied with what probably was supposed to be a meaningful, sideways glance at Wulf. He didn't shake him off, but the tone of his voice indicated that maybe he wasn't entirely happy with the violation of his private space.

Wulf couldn't care less. This was a not-so-subtle revenge for all the beatings he had taken in the training ring and he took his sweet time before complaining. "I'm bored."

The housecarl put away his sword slowly. "Do you want to spar?"

"No," Wulf replied and poked him in the side for good measure. "I want you to entertain me. What do I own a housecarl for?"

He was rewarded with a heavy sigh before Argis turned to face him. "Is there something you would like to do?"

"Have you ever been to the Dwemer Museum?" Wulf wanted to know, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"I don't think there's a person in Markarth who has not been to the museum," the housecarl said.

Wulf was glad to notice he sounded amused rather than cross. "Well, there is _one_ ," he pointed out. "And Aicantar has agreed to give me the tour of the place. Want to come?"

For a while he wasn't sure what the other man would reply. Then Argis shrugged and got up, forcing Wulf to take a step back. "Sure."

They found the Altmer in Calcemo's laboratory in an out-of-the-way part of the Understone Keep, pouring over old documents. The young scientist appeared relieved at the opportunity to escape his uncle, the Jarl's court mage and a man known for the research he did on the Dwemer, and not his patience.

Aicantar grumbled about his uncle all the way to the museum and Wulf must have made all the appropriate noises because the Altmer refused to shut up until they stood in front of a set of metal double doors that were guarded by two very bored soldiers.

Aicantar stopped and pulled a golden key from his pocket and then turned to the two Nords. "Alright, here we are," the scholar announced. "It's my pleasure to be your guide, Thane Wulfryk. These aren't regular hours, so I don't need to tell you to please speak softly. However, I must insist that you don't touch anything." Hits gaze swept over both men.

Argis grunted in what might pass for consent.

"Why?" Wulf asked.

"Because it's probably valuable and – or – dangerous, plus there's no telling what my uncle will do when he finds out that one of the exhibits got damaged," Aicantar rattled off, sounding as if that was a speech he was used to giving very often. He then, without waiting for an answer, unlocked the doors and pushed them wide open, beckoning for his guests to step into the next room.

Wulf had to admit it, the museum was rather impressive and not just for the fact that somebody had actually gone to such lengths to collect this much junk _and_ that the Jarl had dedicated a part of his keep to store said things. Not that he did not believe the Altmer when he said the things kept here were of high value, they simply also happened to be completely useless.

Aicantar began his tour with a short lesson on the history of the Dwemer and their civilization, and ended it with their mysterious disappearance from Nirn. Then the scholar led his guests to the showcases. Ancient, fragile books and scrolls filled the first one, their contents faded until some could be barely made out.

"A preserving spell keeps them from crumbling into dust," Aicantar said proudly and then continued, "I admit, they're not the most interesting part of the collection, unless you happen to study the subject. It is a pity we have so few; a lot can be learned from such accounts." He sighed theatrically and couldn't resist adding, "If one knows how to decipher their contents."

Wulf almost poked at the glass cabinet before he remembered he wasn't supposed to do that and just pointed at the volumes instead. "Doesn't your uncle ever read them?"

"I'm pretty sure he knows these by heart," the Altmer joked. "There even was this one time he insisted on cooking a traditional dwarven meal and ended up making us both sick. He has made progress with the language since; we wouldn't want to repeat the poison mushroom incident."

Wulf snorted and Aicantar grinned. He was remarkably level-headed for a scholar and he answered all of Wulfryk's questions, and without being the slightest bit snobby about his companion's utter lack of knowledge about the Dwemer and their metal constructs. He also had funny anecdotes about most of the exhibits that he visibly enjoyed sharing.

Wulf decided that he liked the Altmer. When he looked back to Argis, who preferred to trail behind the other two men, he saw his housecarl listening with his head cocked. Maybe all this wasn't what the regular visitors were told. Argis appeared to be looking around with interest and returned Wulf's smile, a sure sign that he wasn't the slightest bit bored, because the Nord never bothered with putting up pretences.

They passed more display cases, full of dwarven kitchenware and weapons and whatever else Calcemo had salvaged of their ancient, extinct culture.

"How did you come by all these?" Wulf asked their guide when he was finished admiring what he had learned was a 'spider worker'.

Aicantar chuckled nervously. "I try not to think about how my uncle got all the parts," he admitted. "Especially the Centurion." He pointed at a giant metal warrior that stood on a platform, right in the middle of the room.

Wulf didn't have to ask what that automaton was for, because the big hammer and crossbow gave away its purpose of a machine of war at first glance.

"You blow them up," Argis supplied helpfully. "Knock the red spinning thing with the stone out of them and they're done for."

"Ah, the core," Aicantar said while Wulf stared at his housecarl in shock. "It contains the soul gem that powers the Centurion. You did some field work with my uncle, did you not?"

"Helped the crazy bastard clear out his precious excavation site," Argis muttered.

Wulf wasn't sure the Altmer even noticed the slur.

"You have been to Nchuand-Zel?" Aicantar asked with envy. "My uncle wouldn't let me go with him," the wizard whined and received a consolatory pat on the back from the housecarl that almost knocked him over.

"He's right, kid. We lost ten hirelings and a whole crew of diggers down there," Argis said. "You stick to your books; you'll live longer."

Aicantar might have protested against the housecarl's opinion of him as a helpless, wee mer, but at the same moment he caught sight of Wulfryk, who had used their guide's distraction to his advantage. "What did I say about not touching anything?"

Wulf's retracted his hand like he had been burned. "Sorry." He smiled in apology. "Couldn't resist." As soon as Aicantar had his back to him, he continued to twist the tiny, well-oiled screw.

Argis saw something fall off the statue and a look of pure panic on Wulf's face before he caught the metal part just in time. Their guide turned and Wulf's hands went behind his back and Argis almost received a dwarven sphere's arm in the crotch.

"Is that a ballista?" his Thane asked promptly, pointing to the far side of the room.

Predictably, Aicantar looked over, a small frown marring his high brow. "Yes, as a matter of fact, it is." He set out for the section and Wulf stealthily handed his prize to Argis and hurried after the Altmer.

The housecarl studied the arm for a moment, thinking about using it to slap some sense into his Thane, and then, with a quiet chuckle, let it slip quietly into a basin with water that already had a myriad of coins glittering at its bottom. He quickly went around the section dedicated to the Falmer and caught up to the others to marvel at the walking ballistae that, thank Akatosh, he had been spared from experiencing firsthand.

"Do none of these actually work?" Wulf asked towards the end of their tour. He had to admit, it would be very disappointing to find out all these were just decorations.

"Well." Aicantar stepped from one foot to the other, seeming eager and reluctant at the same time. "Oh, I guess it can't hurt," he finally decided and briskly led them to the back of the museum where he unlocked a solid door with a different key. "I have been doing some research of my own." The scholar was talking fast in his excitement. He almost jogged through the corridor and to a cubicle on the left side of the room where he opened yet another door. "Welcome to my humble workplace," he said distractedly and turned a full circle. "Now, where is it? Ah, here it is." The Altmer pulled out a long staff with runes engraved all over it from a corner. It lit up under his touch, and then–

"Sweet Talos!" Wulf breathed when a spider crawled from under the table, its legs clicking against the floor.

"I know," Aicantar practically squealed. "It's fully functional and– "

"Can you make it tap dance?" Wulf interrupted, crouching to get a better look at the spider.

"I don't think-"

"The Whittleclod!" Wulf spoke right over the Altmer's protests. "Make it dance the Whittleclod."

Wulf's stomach was cramping from laughing so hard by the time Aicantar's spider perfected the fool's dance and was maniacally prancing around the laboratory with astonishing grace and sheer endless energy. The Altmer had sunk on a stone bench in the corner of the room and even Argis needed to brace himself against the table.

"Now, that's what my uncle would call a waste of resources," Aicantar chortled. He sounded winded and wiped a stray tear off his cheek. "And I think I ruptured something."

"You know, Wulf told him dreamily when he helped the scholar to his feet, "You could make a fortune performing with that that thing."

One day, when the whole affair in Whiterun had blown over, he was going to take this automaton to Jorrvaskr. Wulf did not for one moment think that a magic metal spider toy would mend any broken relationships, but he bet that Farkas' kids would _love_ it and that alone would be worth it.

 

xxxx

 

Apart from the visit to the Dwemer museum the rest of the week passed uneventfully. Argis and his Thane took a break from their training because they needed to be in top form when they set out again, and spent most of their free time preparing for the journey ahead of them.

Brigge's company returned on the morning of the fifth day, the soldiers marching through the massive portcullis of the city gate in neat rows of eight men. Because the wounded had to be carried their going had been slow. One more man had died on the way back, and the other injured ones were taken to the priestesses of Dibella for healing.

Argis cornered Brigge the moment he caught sight of him.

The other Nord took off his helmet, running fingers through his grime-streaked hair. "We missed you out there," was the first thing he said to the approaching housecarl.

"Rolf told me the fighting went well," Argis replied, worry gnawing at his insides.

"Considering how much worse it could have gone," the man answered sourly and dropped his pack. Brigge hated doing actual field work. "I need a bath," he announced and stretched. "And because I know you won't give me a moment's peace to get one," he continued, "I need a drink."

"Man up, you sissy," Argis told him with a negligent shrug and slung the other warrior's pack over his shoulder. He needed a detailed report and any maps Brigge might have, then they had to work out what to tell Igmund and finally he had to find men willing to accompany him and his Thane.

 oooo

Now, a day later, Argis had only the one most dreaded duty to perform.

'Good morning' and Wulf were two things that should never share a sentence. Waking him was about as joyous a task as poking a hagraven. Argis took a deep breath before he shook the sleeping man's shoulder. Wulf came to with a startled curse and an unhappy grumble and only tried to stab his housecarl twice.

Argis took away the fork before his Thane scored a lucky hit and managed to wedge it in his thigh.

"I hate you," Wulfryk mumbled into his pillow.

"Can you hate me and get dressed?" Argis asked. "Because we need to go."

"Now?"

"M-hmm," Argis hummed in affirmation. "If you make it in five minutes there'll still be breakfast left.

"What's for breakfast?" Wulfryk was always more agreeable when his stomach was full.

"Come and see for yourself," Argis told him left without answering the question. He'd find out soon enough and the housecarl had learned the hard way not to rush his Thane.

"Porridge." Wulf let his spoon drop back into his bowl, splashing some milk on the table and shot his darkest glare at Argis. "I _hate_ you, Sunshine."

 oooo

Ten minutes later they were walking through the busy morning crowd to meet with the other lucky four souls who would go with them and who had better be waiting at the gates. Argis didn't see Thonar's dog until he almost knocked into him. He regretted the man taking a step back, because it would have been most satisfactory to knock his shoulder into the bastard and send him sprawling onto the gutter.

"Couldn't get rid of him like you did your last Thane?" Yngvar sneered with a sideways look at Wulfryk, who had stopped at Argis' side. "Well, good luck this time. What did you do again– ?"

"I watched the useless, stuck-up twit get smashed to pulp and danced a fucking jig around his corpse," Argis forced out between clenched teeth. Not even he could get away with killing a man in broad daylight for a slight that many would agree he deserved for Bjorn's death. "Which is _exactly_ what I'm going to do to you."

"Hey, robin!" Wulfryk snapped his fingers at the drunk Nord like one might at a real dog and the other man's bloodshod eyes wandered from Argis to his Thane and finally fixed on him. "I'm right here, you know." Then his icy blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're a bard, right?" he asked slyly. "Appreciate a bit of poetry?"

"Sure." Yngvar grunted and took a long dreg from his tankard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. "Whatever." The warrior released a thunderous belch and turned away from them, ready to head back into the inn. What he had not expected, was for Wulf to call for everybody's attention.

People first stopped to gawk, then ambled closed, and Argis saw the one or other curious guard amongst the growing audience. Good.

"Here's a verse to the man who thinks I'll let him insult my housecarl," Wulf announced with a flourish that earned Yngvar a few hateful stares.

"Let's hear it!" somebody shouted. The Silver-Blood hireling was far from a popular figure.

Wulf cleared his throat and Argis suffered through a moment of uncertainty when nothing happened except for the dark haired Nord counting something out on his fingers. His lips were moving, but he made no sound. A few onlookers shifted, growing restless and Argis' hands tightened into fists. This wasn't something he could fight. Wulfryk had begun this, and if he didn't conclude it, and soon, he'd be the one looking like an idiot.

And then his Thane grinned at Argis, winked, and began.

 

_There once was a blustering Robin,_

_Out on the street, drunkenly bobbin',_

_Figured himself a singer,_

_He went by the name of Yngvar._

 

A few spare chuckles were heard when Wulfryk paused to draw breath. Argis quietly released a penned up breath. It wasn't half bad for something his Thane must have pulled off the top of his head.

 

_He liked ale and he liked blood,_

_Thought he was a manly stud,_

_Sadly, the ladies liked him not,_

_So a hagraven's all he got._

 

Now, that was better. Argis guffawed with the rest of the audience, amused by the verses and, above all else, by the expression on Yngvar's face. But Wulfryk wasn't halfway done with the guy.

 

_On the morrow he did recover,_

_Next to him saw his lover,_

_Remembered a night of passionate kissing,_

_And discovered that his balls were missing._

 

By now Wulf's audience had warmed up to his performance and he received a round of boisterous laughter, and applause. Yngvar was whistled at, and the bright red splotches on his face did not improve his complexion one lousy bit.

 

_Which is why he peeps so high,_

_Makes his poor audience cry,_

_When he shut ups it is bliss,_

_Yngvar, let me tell you this:_

 

_Shove some silver up your nethers,_

_Warble till you grow some feathers,_

_Pull your head from Thongvor's butt,_

_And sod off, you half-goat mutt._

 

"Thank you!" Wulf shouted over the roar of the crowd. He bowed and blew Yngvar a kiss. "And thank _you_ for the inspiration!"

A local drunk by the name of Cosnach actually cheered for more.

Yngvar's hand was on his warhammer, a sneer twisting his face into a grimace. He gave the tankard he had dropped earlier a kick that sent it fling and stepped forward.

"If he attacks me it is perfectly legal for you to kill him, right?" Wulf pointed out in good cheer, laughing along with the rest of those who were oblivious to the tension underlying the situation.

"Right." Argis grinned. "It will be my pleasure."

Yngvar must have had the same thought in that instant because he stopped so suddenly he looked like he had run smack into an invisible wall.

"Oh, come on," Wulfryk taunted. "My housecarl's looking for a bit of a thrill."

Yngvar surprised them all by not rupturing a blood vessel and dying on the spot. With a string of curses the mercenary disappeared back into the inn, to – as Wulf put it – drown his last shreds of dignity, and the guard began to break up the gathering.

"You've made an enemy," Argis remarked quietly, glaring at the sign that said 'Silver-Blood Inn'.

"Aye." Wulf grinned. He looked proud of himself. "But now I'm famous. Did you like my sonnet?"

Argis shook his head, but he replied, "You have the soul of a true poet. I could almost taste the bitterness of your heartfelt loathing."

"Thank you." Somehow the warrior sounded more sincere now that he was no longer performing for a crowd.

Argis did not need anybody defending his honour, yet it felt good to have his Thane care enough to do so anyway. Not because he thought that Argis needed the help, but because it was what friends did for one another.

"Come on, let's go." He put a hand between Wulf's shoulder blades and began to steer him towards the city gates. The day had just begun, after all. He was sure there was plenty of excitement yet ahead of them.


	62. HT

Wulf caught sight of Lars' red hair as soon as he spotted the group of soldiers who were to accompany them. The others were waiting for them next to the stables, which, curiously enough, smelled like a brewery. He did not know any of the other people and already missed Pike and Theryn and their good-natured banter. Argis made for rather one-sided conversation, but as if to make up for it, Lars almost never shut up.

Lars waved at them as they approached and introduced Wulf to his best friend, Rolf. Rolf was tall but rangy for a Nord, lacking the bulk of most of his countrymen. His brown hair was gathered in a tail at the nape of his neck and he had a plain, long face, thin lips and a beaklike nose that slanted slightly to the left, having healed badly after probably more than one break. Rolf stood slightly slumped as if he wished to make himself smaller and leaned on his longbow which was braced against the top of his boot. The bow looked more like a staff than an actual bow and probably could be used to bludgeon an enemy to death if the need ever arose. Wulf was afraid to even estimate the draw weight of the thing.

The next soldier to make up their merry little band was a short Nord who barely reached Wulf's shoulder. He kept his bloodshot eyes shaded with one hand and looked like his headache might kill him any moment. With what he had in him, Wulf guessed he could nurse that hangover for another two days, at least. The man introduced himself as Dom.

"Dom?" Wulf repeated.

"Dominique," the soldier explained in a resigned tone. "Father's from Wayrest."

A Breton then, or half of one.

"So, we have an archer and, Lars, you can be out entertainment," Wulf said pointing at each of the men in turn.

"What does that make you?" the redhead muttered while Rolf shot curious glances between his friend and Wulfryk, apparently not quite sure what to make of this situation.

"That's easy," a new voice joined in before Wulf could answer. With the woman coming to stand next to Rolf they formed a complete circle. She had a colourful headcloth wrapped around her blonde hair and freckles peppering her nose and cheeks. "Argis is the muscle. He," here she indicated Wulf, "Can be our beauty. Which, unsurprisingly, makes me the brains." She grinned at them and extended a hand for Wulf to shake. "I'm Sigrid, Thane. I saw you serenade Yngvar. Good on you!"

"Ooh, my first admirer," Wulf replied in a singsong voice. "You can fawn over me all the way. I might even allow you to carry my things – for a while."

"Yeah, you'll fit right in, alright," she replied with a laugh and hefted her own pack higher.

The sentiment brought a goofy smile to Wulf's face. "So you can be either the packmule or the emergency rations," he remarked to a dour Dom.

"M'good with magic," Dom answered, the words running together. "Sorry, Thane. Not feeling very well."

"Ya, don't go lightin' any fires before ya sober up," Lars cautioned him. "Last thing we need is ya blowin' yar stupid arse up."

"He'd go up in flames like a distillatory," Sigrid chuckled, then clapped her hands together. "Alright, everybody. South Cliff Pass it waiting for us. We'll camp under the rock and see what tomorrow brings. Weather looks good enough for now, but I'm not taking any chances this late in the year. Any questions?"

"How long is it going to take us to cross?" Wulf asked when nobody else had any.

"Two days. Arkay knows a lot can go wrong in two days," Sigrid said with a worried glance at the sky.

"What if we cannot make it in time?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "Not my place to tell." The soldier turned to lead the way and the others followed her.

All except for Argis, who fell into step besides Wulf. "I don't think even Igmund expects us to cross the mountains in winter. No point worrying about it now, is there?"

"Oh, I wasn't worried," Wulf said flippantly. "Except for missing out on those frozen waterfalls you promised me."

Argis chuckled softly and replied, "Be careful what you wish for."

They did not say anything else after that. Wulf watched the countryside as they followed the main road away from Markarth. He spared some thought to the cobblestones under his feet, worn smooth with the passing of time. Each block was perfectly fitted and larger than a single man could carry. Another relic of the Dwemer, Wulf realized when he stumbled over an uneven patch where the original paving had been repaired much more crudely.

Wulf enjoyed walking alongside his housecarl. The other man's stride matched his own which made for easy marching. Their entire group travelled relatively light. They still needed tents and snowshoes and warm clothes, but everything that could be spared they left behind. Wulf wore the chainmail shirt and leather brigantine Argis had given him for training. Since their first spar they had made a few adjustments to the chest piece and now it fit Wulf like a glove. He hoped Argis would let him keep it as a second set, because getting new armour worn in was a pain in the ass and he already had the prospect of doing so with the one he had commissioned from Moth to look forward to.

For an hour the Karth was to their right, roaring and with white foam caps forming on the rapids. Whenever a particularly strong gust of wind blew, it sent a cold, wet drizzle their way. Wulf ducked his head and pulled the collar of his cloak up. There wasn't a place in the Reach where one wasn't one stone's throw away from a river, he mused, glad when they came to a junction in the road. They took the right fork that led them to the Left Hand miners' settlement.

When Wulf asked how the place had gotten its name, Argis only shrugged.

There was only one road through the village, but before they could reach the end, Sigrid turned left. From there on they followed no trail that Wulf could discern, circling around the mountain range that lay to Markarth's south. Wulf knew they were going to climb to the top, but he had not expected the mountainside to become this steep so very soon. Standing as upright as the terrain allowed he could almost touch the ground with his hand.

The going was slow and arduous while the peaks above taunted them with their deceptive closeness. At midday they made a brief stop to rest and eat in a place that had obviously been used for the very purpose before.

Argis was tending to the fire and their meal while everybody else stretched, or – in Dom's case – was lying motionlessly on their back. The housecarl had tied his mane of blond hair into a sloppy ponytail and wrapped a triangular kerchief the colour of rust around his head. His braids were spilling out of the sides, and more strands joined as the wind picked them out, one by one.

Wulf was talking to Lars, his legs stretched out before him. "How did you come to join the army?"

The redheaded soldier shrugged and finished chewing on his piece of hardtack, swallowed and replied, "There wasn't enough work back home fer all o' us. Ma and Da couldn't afford ta feed nine hungry mouths all by their selves."

Wulf choked on his meal and when he was done coughing pressed out a weak, "Nine?"

"Aye," Lars confirmed with a nod. "So I left. Turned out ta be tha right choice. Got me some good friends I wouldn't exchange for all tha turnips in Karth's Hollow," he said with a grin. "Bein' a soldier's tha right thing fer me. Wish it included less marching, tha," he added with a piteous look at their guide.

"Just eight more hours," Sigrid remarked cheerfully.

Wulf already knew that it was a grave insult in the Reach to imply that a person had goats as ancestors, and so he did not ask, although he suspected there was a distant relation here, maybe even cousinship, with how easily she had skipped along the nonexistent track.

The break was over all too soon, and Argis approached his Thane with something colourful clutched in one large hand. Wulf saw that it was a cloth like the one he was wearing, only in blue.

"What you did for me today, it was nice," Argis said, sounding slightly abashed and not looking Wulf in the eye. "I- thank you. Here." He offered the cloth. "I want you to have this."

Wulf took the gift, wrapping it around his hand. "Aw, that's sweet. Now we get matching ones."

Argis recoiled like Wulf had hit him in the face. "You don't have to wear it," he remarked brusquely. "But keep it with you. When we cross over the snowfields, tie it over your eyes."

"Right," Wulf said to the blond warrior's back, confused. Wulf didn't hate feeling as if he had done something wrong half as much as he hated not knowing what it was he had done wrong. As far as he could tell, he had accepted a gift. If Argis didn't want him to have it, Wulf had his own cloth that could serve as a blindfold.

They continued their ascent in single-file and nobody had breath to spare for talk. Maybe that was the reason why his housecarl remained quiet for the rest of the day.

Wulf sighed and tied the kerchief around his head. Now the wind no longer howled in his ears. Markarth wasn't as windy as Whiterun had been – unless you happened to be in a place like here, where the rocks happened to channel the wind. He had eight hours and nothing to do but pant, sweat and enjoy the view Argis' shapely, albeit grumpy ass.

 oooo

They did not stop again until nightfall, and then only because they arrived at their destination at the very foot of the cliff. Their camp was quiet, dark and cheerless. Nobody bothered with actually raising their tents properly; they just crawled right into them.

To Lars' great disappointment Rolf was sharing his with Sigrid. "Naw, man! I thought we was friends!" the redhead called and received a round of snickers in answer. "Least ya could do is share– " the ball of snow caught him full in the face.

Wulf heard laughter and then Sigrid and Rolf disappeared into their tent.

"I want myself a woman like that," Lars sighed, poking at the earth with a short stick. "She's got to be a warrior. Tough, but also soft in all tha right places." His eyes closed dreamily.

Wulf wished him good luck with finding his dream girl and left the soldier to brood over his fate – or to fall asleep right where he sat. Argis barely stirred when the tent flap opened to let in a gust of cold air before Wulf closed it again. He remembered to kick off his shoes, but the rest was darkness and confusing dreams filled with more hiking.

 oooo

It was still fully dark when Wulf was shaken awake none too gently.

"Mrahk dijssz vaeziz- "

Wulf pressed his face harder into the ground to escape the touch when somebody ruffled his hair, but cracked open one bleary eye when the same someone pressed a hot piece of toasted bread into his hand. It was topped with dry-cured ham, wild chives and molten cheese on top. Wulf smiled sleepily and took a bite, chewing slowly. Argis knew him too well.

When he mustered the energy to get up and pack, his housecarl was uncurling rope. The length of it was wound around his arm and he was laying it out in loops, checking the rope for damage.

"Anything I should know beforehand?" Wulf asked, feeling a bit left out; eager and also anxious. He knew the tale of their victory over the Forsworn camp had spread, but he still felt like he had to prove himself. Wulf didn't like having to prove himself. He knew he could pull his own weight and that was all that counted, but he was also out of his depth here. Everybody else worked together with an ease that came from familiarity and it made him stand out all the more.

"Yeah," Argis told him, cutting off that trail of thought, and good riddance. The housecarl's strange mood from yesterday appeared to have blown over and he was back to his pensive, deadpan self. "Don't fall."

"Ha, ha." It came out as flat as a mouse stomped to death by a mammoth. Wulf didn't have the energy to bother pretending.

"Here." Argis showed him how to wrap the rope around his waist and shoulders with clear instructions to never step on it.

They ate and bundled up their bedding and tents, and set out again. Mountain 'climbing' wasn't what Wulf had imagined it to be. Mostly they followed a steep path that he could barely make out. There were plenty of stretches where he had to hold on with his hands, cursing when small pieces of loose stone fell away from between his fingers. Slipping would lead to an unpleasant if quick death on the rocks hundreds of feet below and though Wulf had always figured himself a good climber; that was without eighty pounds of backpack messing with his balance.

From time to time they had to rid themselves of their packs and actually scale the cliff. Argis usually went first and pulled the bags, which now also contained their armour, up.

When they found a good place to rest, Wulf and Argis waited for the other four soldiers to get further ahead of them so they wouldn't get stuck in one of the trickier places if the person in front of them encountered some difficulties.

It was during one such stop when somebody from further above yelled, "Rock!"

Wulf instinctively looked up, but before he could make out anything other than a dry, splintering sound from higher up, Argis had an arm around his chest and hauled him towards the wall. There were no protracting stones overhead to provide safety, and the housecarl's grip on his bicep grew bruising. Wulf caught sight of a flash of movement, and flinched under the spray of gravel and chunks of broken rock that rained down on them when the stone bounced off the mountainside and continued downwards in an unpredictable zig-zag.

"Are you alright?" came the call from above.

"Yes," Argis bellowed back, and Wulf heard the answer passed on,

"They're fine!"

"We should wait a while longer," Argis said and Wulf did not answer, simply enjoying the other man's steadfast presence. He did not think his housecarl had acted out of a sense of duty; that flash of fear in his eye had been all too real. It felt oddly heartening to know that the man cared about him as more than just his responsibility. Wulf would have to remember to tease him about it later.

Nothing exciting happened through the rest of the day. Despite knowing they'd be in deep trouble – or rid of all of them entirely – if they had been hit, the rockfall had happened and was over again so quickly, Wulf had never truly been aware of the danger. As the sun neared the horizon, however, and the light took on a golden glow, he grew restless. They were still not within sight of the top.

Of course nobody had told him they were to bivouac right in the cliff, on a ledge less than half the size of Wulf's bed.

It would have been enough for one man to lie down, but not for the two of them. They'd have to sleep sitting up. When Wulfryk voiced his feeble protest, Argis had laughed and asked if he had expected an inn up here. Wulf's glare was spoiled by his eyes falling closed and his retort turned into a yawn. He felt only marginally safer when Argis tied them to the cliff and huddled against the rock at his back. When he closed his eyes, breathing deeply, he discovered that he definitely could fall asleep like that. The Nord forced his eyes open again to see Argis wipe his face with his headcloth before he tied it again.

"Uh, want to change places?" Wulfryk knew how edgy being on Argis' blind side made the man and whilst under normal circumstances that could be fun, Wulf didn't want to get kicked off the cliff in the middle of the night. Not that he wanted to take flying lessons at any other time either, but the dark made the prospect of tumbling down into the abyss scarier. Then again, he wouldn't see the ground rush up to meet him.

"It's fine when I know you're there."

It took some finesse and planning for the warriors to change out of their sweaty clothes and into fresh ones. Their packs dangled beneath them and only one of them could move at a time and not much at that. Bit by bit they managed to spread out Wulf's and Argis' bedrolls for both men to sit on. Wulfryk had a hide to cover his legs and he tucked it in around himself to close any crevices where the cold draft would blow in. Argis tossed his sabrecat pelt to cover them both.

They ate a cold meal and watched the orange disc of the sun set behind the distant hills and the first stars twinkle in the darkening skies above. Wulf's head nodded against his chest. He was tired, his muscles ached and his hands were bruised and bloody, his nails cracked. He was feeling high on the success of having come this far and warmth spread from his side where he leaned against his housecarl.

"Argis?"

"Hm?"

"Does housecarling include double-duty as your Thane's pillow?"

"I think today it does," the warrior rumbled sleepily. There was no telling what he thought of that. Argis' smiles, few and far in between, were lopsided things, and usually no more than a twitch of the corner of his mouth. The scarred side was mostly expressionless or slow to respond.

Wulf let his head sink down on Argis' shoulder and shifted to make the position slightly more comfortable for his back. He could feel Argis' pulse against the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed of their own accord. All that remained was the sharp smell of the cold breeze and the earthy rock behind and underneath them. Warm skin and sweat and a hint of the herbs Argis used to keep in satchels with his clothes back home.

A moment later he felt Argis' head come to rest on top of his.

 oooo

Wulf woke up stiff and sore and with a nasty crick behind his right shoulder blade. He had a minor panic attack where his heart skipped a beat upon seeing the gorge that opened up before his feet. He wasn't afraid of heights, but he didn't want to contemplate the precarious position he had slept in any closer. Maybe it was a good thing he'd been dead beat yesterday, because it meant he had been also too tired to care. Wulf wasn't sure he would have gotten any sleep otherwise.

He and Argis called out a 'good morning' to the other members of their party and listened to the echo of their replies. They watched the sun rise while eating a cold breakfast and then it was time to set out again.

There was no possible way to warm up and so Wulf moved slowly and cautiously, not trusting his weary muscles. Argis did not rush him, but still they reached the snow fields long before the sun did its zenith. From there it was a hike of another four to five hours to the top of the mountain.

The Nords all bound their eyes to prevent snow-blindness, strapped on the snowshoes kept walking, changing the marching order frequently. The person in the lead had it worst and the last one easiest. Wulf kept his head down and focused on taking the next step only, remembering his hike up the slopes of High Hrothgar.

He was so lost in thought that he bumped into Rolf when the procession stopped. They had followed the mountain ridge for how long he couldn't say, but when Argis pointed out the peak from where they had set out this morning, it was further in the distance than he believed possible. Before them the glacier created a large bowl where the ground sloped gently downwards before it ended in a narrow ravine, flanked by high towers of stone on both sides.

Sigrid was standing with her hands braced in the small of her back, her face turned towards the sky. "I think there's a storm brewing."

The sky was blue with barely a cloud in sight, except for on the horizon where they were rolling against the mountains like the boiling sea against a ship's bow.

None of the other men asked their guide of she was sure though, and so Wulf did not either. He knew that this far up a change of weather announced itself early to those who could read the signs, but when it actually happened, it did so within minutes.

"Only one thing ta do," Lars announced, rubbing his hands eagerly. To Wulf's questioning look – at least Wulf attempted to make it questioning, though he did not know if he succeeded with the cloth wrapped around his head – the redhead answered, "We shield-sled down the slope."

Sigrid nodded and Wulf did a double take.

"What about avalanches? Or crevasses? Or the possibility of a messy death on those rocks there?"

"Eh," Lars waved a hand, shield already in hand. He appeared untroubled by the grisly picture Wulf painting. "If it can't end messy, it ain't fun."

"That's what I always say," Wulf replied, wide-eyed. "But usually I'm in bed with some gorgeous hunk and not talking about ending as a red stain on a rock."

They were pulling his leg. Had to be. Except that everybody was shrugging off their packs. Sigrid was poking at the ground, one foot out of her snowshoes. "Snow's old here," she announced. "Nice and firm."

Wulf turned to his housecarl. "Wait. This actually is a thing?"

Argis grinned, but it was Sigrid who answered.

"Unless you want to walk all the way down, freeze your pants solid and get your shoes full of snow so they'll be wet and cold, yes." She shrugged indifferently. "Not to mention missing out on the fun part _and_ being caught in a snowstorm because we won't make it down in time."

"Alright, alright." Wulf raised his hands to fend her off. He could already feel the grin tug at his face. This was madness. He actually looked forward to it and guessed it was proof enough that Nords were certifiably insane. No other peoples tended to get as maniacally gleeful about their looming deaths.

Lars was the first to go, rocking to get good speed. Rolf went second and he did fine too, until he was too small a speck in the distance to tell. It couldn't be that bad, Wulf decided and took his turn, sitting on the shield and pushing off with his legs.

His slide went well until the bloody thing beneath him began to spin and pick up speed until the rest of the world was a blur, the wind howling in his ears and bringing tears to his eyes. There was no stopping, and no steering, and it was the single maddest, funniest, out-of-control thing Wulf had done in his entire life.

Or so it seemed at the moment, when he found himself slowing down and Lars waved at him wildly and he couldn't believe had survived.

There was a lurch and he almost busted his nose against the ground when he fell off his shield. Wulf skid a few more feet and came to a stop when he dug his heels into the ground. To his left rocks were poking through the snow, signifying the end of the snowfields. Wulf stood up and attempted to take one step, and fell flat on his ass, his head spinning. It was like being drunk, only cheaper than Hulda's mead.

"Sweet Talos! I want another go," Wulf decided.

Lars and Rolf laughed. "I told ya! Best thing- "

Where the three of them had stopped, Argis' greater weight still had him going strong enough to barrell into Lars on his way down. The redheaded soldier was lost in a spray of white and Wulf let himself fall back, laughing. He was feeling the surge of elation; an almost frantic giddiness that took hold of him.

Until Lars threw the first snowball. And then there was no stopping the battle that ensued. Another ball of snow exploded against Wulf's shield which he had managed to pull from the snow and which looked no worse for the misuse. He peered over the rim in time to see he was being tackled by his housecarl. Then Argis' arm was around his neck and Wulf just managed to get their legs tangled up. They both went down, laughing and trying to pour snow down the other man's collar.

Wulf saw Lars shoot Dom off his vehicle with one well-placed snowball and the soldier flipped down the last stretch, head over heels. When he got up, cursing, and swearing revenge, Wulf noticed that the Breton was the only one whose lips had a slightly blue tinge to them.

Sigrid arrived last, the only one who appeared to have a measure of control over her descent. She received the snowy initiation just like everyone else and emerged to duck Lars back into a drift, cheeks flushed red. Argis helped Wulf up from the depression they had rolled into and beat the snow from his coat.

Up close Wulf could see the contrast between his ruddy skin and the pale scars that crossed his cheek, and that Argis' eyelashes were frozen and he had the sudden, crazy urge to kiss the other man.

He clamped down on it vehemently and turned away with a sharp intake of breath and his heart beating harder in his chest than it had during his sled. Damn, damn, _damn_.

Thankfully the blond warrior did notice his strange behaviour, because when Wulf got a hold on himself, the other man was talking to a worried Sigrid. A glance up confirmed that half the sky was now grey and the wind seemed to be picking up.

"How far is it?" Rolf asked with a frown and tugged his hood over his head.

"Not far," Sigrid answered, "But we better hurry."

They did, running and skidding down the slope until their guide found what she had been looking for. Wulf would have missed the squat stone structure, hewn into the rock and built from debris, if Sigrid had not led them right to it. The first fluffy flakes of snow were spinning through the air by then.

The safehouse was tiny, dark and smelled none too pleasant, but it had been built for the very purpose of weathering storms by the scouts who watched the passes around Markarth during a greater part of the year. The soldiers used a tent to seal up the entrance and the others as a protective layer which they spread their bedding out on. Then there was nothing to do but wait until the storm had blown over.

In the tiny space the oil lamps gave off enough heat warm up the air and Rolf had had the forethought to bring cards. They played and nibbled on the rations and listened to the wind howl outside. Wulf fell asleep sandwiched between Argis and Dom and woke up to see his housecarl poking his sword through the doorway. It was almost entirely dark inside the safehouse, until Argis' seax broke through the snow and a ray of sunlight illuminated the gloomy interior.

It took a while until they dug their way out, but the spirits were high because the hardest part was behind them. They only had to reach the bottom of the valley now and follow it for the next couple of days. Finding the Forsworn retreat was a challenge for another day.

When Wulf crawled out of the stone hut, the ground was almost two feet higher entire landscape had changed from grey and brown to white.

"We made it just in time," Rolf remarked, wiping his forehead in a gesture of relief.

"Mhmm," Sigrid hummed with a look towards where they had come from. "There's no going back this way, now." She took the lead again, and Wulf marvelled at their fortunate timing of crossing the mountains on the last day such a feat was still possible and to find shelter minutes before the storm hit them with full force.

Wulf did not thank the Gods for it; they had a developed nasty diversion of tripping him up. He felt queasy all through the morning – until a surprised shout made him look up. One of the soldiers lost his footing and slipped a couple of feet, falling into a hollow by the wayside. A second glance revealed it to be Dom, who, despite the soft landing he must have had, was clutching his leg and swearing.

Argis dropped his pack and slid down to where the man was lying, soon joined by Rolf who was carrying a part of the medical supplies. Wulf watched from the path, not sure if he should join them.

Dom moaned loudly. "Fuck my life."

"Are you drunk?" Argis asked in a quiet, but deadly serious voice. He was crouched next to the soldier.

"I wish I was," Dom hissed, and when Argis looked like he might deck him one, "Fuck! No! I know better. We were all together. Search my things if you don't believe me," the man grunted.

Over his harsh breathing Wulf heard Sigrid whisper to Rolf, "How is it even possible to break your leg in this much snow?"

The archer just shook his head.

Wulf turned his attention back to what was going on below. "Anything I can help with?" he asked warily.

"Have you got anything to drink?" Dom forced out through clenched teeth at the same time Argis shook his head in answer to his Thane's question.

"Ya've had plenty," Lars reprimanded the injured soldier, sitting on his chest while Argis removed his boot.

"This'll hurt."

"Not." Dom bit down on the leather that was shoved between his teeth. "Nut snce Mrkrth."

Suddenly Lars' eyes went wide, and he shouted, "Mountain lion!"

He was good; Wulf's head wasn't the only one that shot around. Argis used Dom's distraction to set the leg. The crack and resounding yell, followed by a veritable waterfall of profanities would have scared away even the toughest, hungriest predators.

"Do we use a potion?" Rolf asked when the screaming died down.

"Well, I'm not fucking carrying him!" Argis rumbled unhappily and Wulf felt a stab of pity for Dom who looked like he wanted to sink further into the snow to escape the housecarl's anger.

Rolf pulled out a small red vial and Wulf realized how liberal the Companions had been with the healing draughts.

Argis handed it to the wounded man and growled, "You fucking idiot. Drink," he ordered. It was such a stark change from yesterday, when he'd been happy and relaxed and laughing.

"What do we do now?" Rolf asked while Lars helped Dom rise to one foot and hop up a few steps so the man could sit down where the redhead could bandage the leg, using two wooden sticks from his medical kit to form a splint. "He'll heal, but he can't walk like that."

Argis ran his hands over his beard and face. "Let me think." When he let his hands fall again, he shook his head. The warrior looked resigned. "There's nothing for it. Find the next valley that leads out of here and take him back."

"I'm sorry," Dom said meekly from his perch, his head hanging between his knees.

The housecarl heaved a huge sigh. There was sympathy in his voice this time, not anger, when he said, "It's not your fault."

"What about you?" Sigrid asked the warrior who in turn looked at his Thane.

Wulf was feeling spectacularly useless so he offered his healing magic to Dom. It was better than just gawking. "Do you know the way?" he wanted to know when he was finally done, because Argis was beginning to look restless.

"Yeah. We won't be crossing any more mountains, either, so we should be fine. The only question is: do you want to go on?"

"Not particularly," Wulf replied, thinking of the comforts of Vlindrel Hall; the hearths and bath and his bed. "But I want to explain myself to Igmund even less."

Argis nodded once in agreement. "Then let's get going."

"Now?"

"Yeah. Still got a long way to go."

They said awkward farewells to the rest of the group and the housecarl stalked away to retrieve the pack he had dropped before.

Lars was nervously twisting a piece of bandage between his fingers when he approached Wulf. "Ya'll watch his back, will ya?"

Wulf assured him that he would and the Nord seemed satisfied with that. He hurried to catch up with his housecarl when he saw the blond warrior had already started out and kept a few paces behind the other man.

A little further down the way Argis stopped with his thumbs hooked into his shoulder straps. "Do you ever get the feeling something's working against you?" he asked suddenly.

Wulf thought of the chest currently lying beneath his bed and what it contained, and swallowed. Whatever it was, he didn't think it was playing with them now, but he had to get rid of the blade as soon as he could think of anything. He'd rather not be in the middle of a second Whiterun disaster.

"Yes." He wished he didn't know what that was like.

 

xxxx

 

"Did you actually get a say in who was going to be your Thane?" Wulf asked out of the blue.

They had run down the gravelly slopes of the mountain and then the rest of the way down. Argis knew he was going to feel his legs on the morrow, but thankfully they had arrived at the bottom of the valley that should lead them to the Hag Rock and, he hoped, Dead Crone Rock. Without further incident, if he had a say about it.

"No," the housecarl replied, using the peaks of the mountains for direction. He had been here before, but not recently. The way led them over a desolate landscape, a rock-strewn riverbed where the only colour came from tufts of grass that sprouted between the stones. Dead trees littered the gorge, a testimony to the destructive force of the river during snowmelt. The men stepped over a few of the stream's smaller channels and continued downstream, searching for a way to cross without getting their feet wet.

"That seems rather unfair, considering you're stuck with my luminous, accomplished and altogether gorgeous self," came Wulf's reply. "Unfair to everybody else, that is."

Apparently Wulfryk had put the recent events behind him and given up on being grim for the day. He was back to his usual _charismatic_ , if annoying self.

The dark haired warrior hopped from stone to stone and Argis half-wished he'd slip and fall into the icy stream, but to his disappointment Wulf made it across safely. The housecarl decided it was as good a way as any and followed his Thane's lead, slightly slower and with more caution. He used a stick he had picked up among the debris for balance until they stood on the same shore.

"Full of yourself, aren't you?" Argis asked, tossing his staff back into the water and watching as the current carried it away.

Wulf nodded. "Unfortunately. I could be-" Then his eyes grew wide in a look of childish excitement "Is that a mudcrab?" It came out almost as a croon.

Argis turned his head, and had to blink twice until he could make out the shapes Wulf was referring to. Before he could answer, Wulfryk had dropped his backpack and picked up a slim twig. Argis watched in disbelief as he approached the feeding crabs and crouched down behind them. Crab-fishers usually had the one or other finger missing and the big crabs could snap the bones of a grown man. These ones were smaller, their carapaces flat and smooth, almost indistinguishable from the grey stones of the riverbed.

Wulf poked the first crab with the twig and the housecarl decided to let him learn the painful way. It was the only way with promising long-term-effects. The others would die laughing if they caught up to them on their way to Markarth because the Thane's hand had been bitten off – by a mudcrab of all things.

The crab spun around with a click of its pincers, its stalked eyes looking for the source of disturbance. Wulf used his branch to tickle it and laughed in delight when the crab attempted to grab the twig.

"Hello, Mr. Pincers."

Argis sometimes played with Prowl the way Wulfryk did with the mudcrab. The other Nord let the stick trail over the ground and the crab went after it with a furious clicking sound, legs sending the smaller pebbles skidding. A second crab soon followed the first, and before long Wulf had four of them walking circles around him.

"You seem to have found your true calling."

Wulf grinned up at his housecarl, but remained otherwise motionless. Maybe that was why the crabs ignored him. After a few more minutes, Argis' Thane tossed the twig away and it landed in the water with a soft splash. Three of the crabs followed. The last one was too slow and got snatched up. Wulf turned it over and slapped its underside and Argis saw six legs curl up before the crab went perfectly still, pretending it was dead.

Wulf tossed the crab from one hand to the other while walking back to his housecarl, and gave it as little spin, not worried about the proximity of the pincers to his hand at all. "We used to catch them on the beach of Lake Rumare," he said softly. "Always got a few coppers for them."

He hefted the crab higher so the blond warrior could get a good look at its underside. It was about as ugly as the rest of the crawler.

"Looks pretty dead, eh?" Wulfryk asked with a grin and waved one of the pincers in Argis' face. "Sometimes I threw them in the bag like this. Takes a while before they'll move again, so the mongers couldn't tell who had brought them the live ones. The screams when one of them reached inside were hilarious." He flipped the crab over and tossed it back into the water.

"If we're ever starving out in the wilds, your crab wrangling skill might become useful," Argis remarked.

Some people claimed that mudcrabs were a delicacy. Argis had tried the meat once and found the crab tasted exactly like its namesake. He wanted to ask how it came that his Thane had collected crabs in the Imperial City to scrape together a few coins, but he did not. He knew he wouldn't get a straight answer out of the other man.

Instead of the happiness from a moment ago, the housecarl saw a wistful look cross his Thane's face. It was gone as soon as it had come, and just like the sun coming from behind the clouds, Wulf was smiling again.

"Let's go, hm?" He picked up his pack again and shouldered it, tugging his black hair out from under the shoulder straps.

Argis followed with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt like he had intruded on a private moment of joy and somehow ruined it with his presence.

 oooo

When night fell, the two Nords pitched their camp amidst a grove of small, twisted juniper trees. Argis rolled slightly to the side to make space when his Thane crawled into his bedroll.

There was a moment of silence, then Wulf stretched out and groaned. "We are downhill."

"No, we aren't."

The other man would be able to hear the glower in his voice even if he did not see it. They had turned the tent three times already and after the last time Wulfryk had been satisfied with the result. He'd forfeit the right to complain.

"You gotta tell me," Argis began because he did not want their conversation to end on a bad note. He was also genuinely curious. "How did you become Thane? All I know is that Jarl Igmund sent you to retrieve his father's lost shield and gave you the title when you were successful."

Wulf turned to lie on his side, facing his housecarl, with one hand under his cheek. Argis could just make out the whites of his eyes in the dark.

"Eh - he did?  I should have paid closer attention then," the other man replied. "Would you believe me if I said I tried to sell it as a piece of dwarven scrap metal?"

"To whom?" Argis asked.

"Calcemo."

"Ah."

"The guards told me he'd buy everything of Dwemer make and for a good price at that. So I decided to try my luck. Landed before the throne before I could finish my offer."

Now that Argis' eyes had adjusted to the darkness he could make out the other Nord's eyes were half-lidded. "It's an honour," he said because the words felt like a safe fallback.

"Are all housecarls like this?" Wulf mumbled into the fur he used as a blanket.

Argis felt a cold shiver pass through him, his hairs rising. "How many have you had?" he asked quietly.

 _Silence_. Shit, he shouldn't have said that. But if Wulfryk left bodies in his wake, Argis wanted to know. The housecarl sat up, bracing his hands behind his back.

"I could ask the same about your Thanes," Wulf retorted with a smile that showed too many teeth.

"The answer ain't 'just you', is it?"

"No," Wulf replied truthfully, and Dibella's tits, Argis realized he might have misunderstood. Shit, he shouldn't judge before he _knew_.

"I'm sorry," the housecarl offered.

"What?" Wulfryk sounded confused. Then he snorted softly. "No, she's alive." Almost as if to convince himself, he added, "She's fine. Married. With two babes."

"What did she call you?" Argis decided to let the matter rest for now. He lay down again. Next to him, Wulf was shaking with silent laughter and all the tension had dissolved again.

"Mostly it was something along the line of 'Hey, Shitface!'"

Argis cleared his throat and, keeping his voice carefully blank, asked, "Do you wish for me to address you like that as well?"

Something kicked his shin.

"Heeey," Wulf drawled, "You're not as humourless and dour as you pretend to be."

"I'll thank you – one way or another – when I decide whether that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult," the housecarl shot back.

Wulf's reply was to yawn. "You'll forgive me if I don't wait up, yes?"

"Aren't you just the tiniest bit curious?"

Wulf chuckled and the fur rustled softly as he stretched his arms above his head before curling up again. "The suspense is killing me," was the last thing he murmured before falling asleep.


	63. HT

Instead of the cold bite of the pre-dawn air Argis awoke to the feeling of being comfortably warm. The reason for said unusual circumstance was that he was half-buried beneath a pile of furs that also happened to include his sleeping Thane. Wulf was breathing slowly and deeply, asleep until the housecarl moved, jostling him awake. Then he groaned and made an attempt at shifting that resulted in him rolling half an inch away from Argis. Maybe. It was a generous guess.

"I told you we are downhill," Wulf muttered without opening his eyes, his face still buried in Argis' shoulder.

"Come on," the blond Nord gently prodded him in the side to get him to move, ignoring the truth of Wulfryk's statement. The other man did not as much as twitch. "Move."

"M-mmm." Wulf made a noise that was halfway between an acknowledging grunt and an annoyed growl and refused to budge. "You're warm. My half is cold. M'staying." As if to prove his point he burrowed deeper into the bedding and Argis could have sworn he also became a few dozen pounds heavier.

The housecarl gave up on trying to persuade the other Nord to get up and lay back again, his gaze drawn to a rusty spot on the tent's ceiling that may or may not have been blood. His left arm was slowly growing numb, but with his Thane's full weight on top of it he couldn't move. As excuses went, it was a poor one, but he wasn't quite ready to admit that it was nice. He had not known he had missed this, the closeness, the heat of a body next to him.

He could smell the man beside him, sweat and a hint of spice, strong but not unpleasant. Well, maybe he was a bit ripe. They both were. They had gone days without a chance at bathing – because a change of clothes and a quick scrub in the icy stream didn't count, but by the Gods, Wulf still smelled good. Warm and sleepy and heady.

Argis could feel himself harden in his breeches. So that's all it took these days, was it?

It had been four years since the death of his lover. Four rather lonely years in which he had had nothing more than a couple of quick fucks to get off. His balls weren't the only part of him feeling empty after bending a nameless stranger over a bench in the backroom of some tavern in the far corners of the Reach. He had not lain beside another, not even innocently like this. Argis had not lied when he had told Wulf that he kept himself apart from his soldiers, even those who were his friends.

Under different circumstances the housecarl might have felt a twinge of relief that time had healed even that wound. Now all he could think about was; why did he have to have these feelings about the man who was his Thane, of all things? He was far more comfortable expressing exasperation than any kind of affection. And there was quite a lot of it. Argis found Wulf's tendency to create a mess wherever he went not only maddening, but truly unsettling. The man was a slob, a layabout, a ruffian and a liar. He might be the best source of outlandish tales within the Reach, and that was a remarkable feat in out of itself, but he was headed for some disaster, and fast.

Wulf was a walking, talking calamity waiting to happen. Argis could, in his very bones feel that the man's middle name spelled 'trouble'. He also knew as much by how the other man had appeared in Markarth. In a blaze, without announcement and without an apology for the lives he had disrupted. Argis expected him to leave the same way, and that thought left him with a feeling of bitter hollowness.

He had known many soldiers of fortune, but never for long.

And that, more than Wulfryk's blatant advances, put him ill at ease. Because he could not deny that there was a tentative bond between them. It was still fragile, but he knew they could strengthen the bond, build it into something that would last. They had already taken the first steps, drinking and spilling blood together, sharing nightly watches and stories.

Wulf was a friend and one Argis had become quite fond of, especially after the other man had made that pain in the arse, Yngvar, the laughing stock of the town in defence of his housecarl's honour. The blond Nord smiled with the memory of Thonar Silver-Blood's dog slinking away with his tail between his legs. That little stunt had earned his Thane an enemy, but he had also won over the hearts of many who had little love to spare for the Silver-Bloods. Hatred for Markarth's wealthiest family ran as deep in the city as veins of silver did in the rock it was built upon.

But Wulf made new friends easily and had already made most of Argis' his own. The soldiers respected him because he had been willing to take counsel from the warrior they themselves deferred to, and because Wulfryk had proven that he could pull his own weight. Argis' Thane had been adamant about partaking in the work that had to be done around the camp, in spite of it being evident that the mountains took their toll on him, not used as he was to climbing them.

The housecarl could tell that Wulfryk was still recovering from the exhaustion after crossing the Ódheas Pas Aill, but despite it he had not voiced a single complaint, which was very uncharacteristic for the man who could swear in Argis didn't even know how many languages for a good four minutes straight because he had been woken at the wrong time of the day. But then anything that wanted to survive and thrive in the Reach had to be bloody tenacious, and humans were no exception to that rule. Wulf fit right in, rugged, sharp and pitiless when he had to be; he was one of the most resourceful and gritty fighters the warrior had ever had the pleasure of crossing blades with. Once in every couple of bouts he managed to get the better of the housecarl. Anybody else and Argis might have considered... more.

But he was worst at protecting those closest around him. They wouldn't listen when he told them, so he did his best to simply keep them safe, but it never was enough. It was a curse, to have all the capability, the training, and yet to be forced to stand by idly in that crucial moment when misfortune delivered the fatal blow.

Maybe he should never have competed for the position housecarl all those years ago. But what else did he have? Being húskarl was his entire pride, his life.

Despondent from such dark thoughts, Argis took a strand of his Thane's dark hair and rubbed it against the shell of the other man's ear. When he poked it inside Wulf gave a full-bodied shudder and slapped his hand away with an unhappy groan, twisting away.

"Can I order you not to be an ass, housecarl?" the warrior mumbled, hiding his face in the soft furs.

"You can try," Argis replied agreeably.

"Just a little more."

"Only because you did not try to stab me this time," the blond Nord conceded generously and felt Wulf's smile against his shoulder.

"Hush, I'm working," the other Nord replied dreamily, his words in contrast with what he actually was doing.

"So?"

But this time Argis did not receive an answer.

 oooo

That day they started out much later than usual. It was nearly midday when they the rolled up their tent and Wulf grudgingly accepted that there was no more going back to sleep. Argis stretched and felt something in his shoulder pop. His entire body felt stiff and he still had that funny prickly sensation in his arm, although a couple of minutes ago he had beaten some life into the limb.

His other arm was, for a change, aching again. The blond Nord rubbed the thick scars that criss-crossed his skin, despite knowing that the action would bring no relief. A hot bath might, but they were miles away from the nearest inn.

"Are you alright?"

Argis looked over to where Wulf had stopped idly poking at the fire to cast his housecarl a worried glance.

"Fine." Argis picked up his shield and went through the same forms he did every morning, until his moves were no longer sluggish, but quick and precise. Finding the motivation to follow through with the warming up exercises was a skill his Thane had never picked up, and out of the corner of his eye Argis saw him shrug and go back to staring at the dancing flames.

The housecarl kept going until he was feeling wide awake instead of half-asleep, but not long enough to tire. He didn't like sleeping. It was just the empty space in between times when he could do something useful. Though if he was entirely honest with himself, he might have needed the additional rest. He had not gotten much of it lately, and he had not allowed himself to oversleep in an eternity. Not that he had planned on dozing the day away. Argis had just... drifted off again. Worst of all, he couldn't even say when it had happened.

There was an old proverb that he remembered; namely that sleep always was better with the comfort of a lover next to one.

Argis' imaginary opponent, always so much better than his real ones, scored a nasty blow against his left shoulder and the housecarl retaliated by breaking his neck with the rim of his shield. He was far from happy with his performance, and he most certainly did not want to contemplate that stray thought which had popped into his head, unbidden. Fortunately, he had a walking, talking distraction in the form of his Thane. If Argis was more inclined to think about it, he might have laughed at the sheer irony of using Wulf to distract himself from the very man.

The other Nord was watching him avidly from beneath half-lidded eyes. "Who won?"

"I did," Argis replied, feeling marginally better. Enough for a small smile appear on his lips. "It was a close call. You should join me. If something attacks us-"

"I'll just hope it will go for you first," Wulf interrupted him with a smirk. "There's more meat on you."

"Scrawny helpless things make for easier kills," Argis countered, not really surprised by his Thane's answer.

Wulf snorted and scratched his head, causing a strand of hair to stick out at a funny angle.

"Your hair is a mess," the housecarl aptly observed.

"Yeah." Wulf almost sounded pleased, as if the rugged look he was sporting at the moment was a great achievement that needed to be shared with the rest of the world.

"You could braid it," Argis suggested.

"I could," Wulf agreed and did nothing the like.

With a sigh Argis let himself sink down next to his Thane. How did the man even see anything? The housecarl wiped his palms on his trousers – not the best way to get them clean, but good enough – before he ran his fingers through the thick black tresses in an attempt to comb out the worst snarls.

Wulf's eyes remained firmly glued to the small fire, but the housecarl felt rather than saw his attention shift to him. It was an almost disconcertingly peaceful moment they shared while he worked; twisting the front strands upwards just so that they wouldn't fall back into Wulf's eyes and tying the rest of his hair into a neat braid that he secured with a thin leather band. When he had finished, Argis let his hands, now without a task and restless, fall back into his lap.

"Thanks." The housecarl did not miss the slightly confused expression on his Thane's face, when the other man turned to regard him, but it was quickly followed by the now-familiar teasing. "What would I do without you?"

The blond Nord picked at a loose thread in his pants and ducked his head, hiding a smile. "You'd grow as shaggy as the bear-man of Fuarloch."

"The – who?"

"It's a tale out mother used to tell when we were young and didn't want to get cleaned up," Argis said and chuckled with the memory before he lapsed into the children's' story he only partly remembered.

"There once was a man who lived behind the far ridges of the Sceana Gorm in a small wooden hut, all on his own. He preferred the company of animals over that of humans, because they never told him what a proper Nord should look like. And so, over time, he stopped caring. He wouldn't rinse his mouth or cut his nails; he neither bathed, nor combed his hair. Thus he lived in the wilderness for many a year, but something happened–," the housecarl paused before resuming.

"I don't remember what. Anyway, the man left his home and trudged through the melting snow towards the nearest village, but he was attacked by a hungry pack of wolves. Three he managed to kill with his bare hands, but now their blood was on his clothes and arms, and it drove the others, mad with hunger after a long winter, into a frenzy. So he ran. For a day and a night he stayed ahead of the hunting pack until, close to breaking down at dawn, he stumbled onto a road. A heartbeat later the sound of hooves on stone made him look up, and he saw the Jarl's men ride towards him. The bear-man waved his arms and shouted so they would notice him and come to his aid. And so they did indeed, spurring their steeds into a canter, and the bear-man laughed, knowing he was saved. Until the soldiers drove their spears into his chest and not the wolves', for the animals were wise enough to withdraw back into the woods when they caught the scent of men."

"The spring hunt claimed the bear-man's life, as the soldiers thought he was a wild beast himself. The Jarl had his head mounted in his hall as a trophy and wears a pelt made from his hide."

Wulf's eyebrows shot up at the unexpected ending, and Argis grinned, half at his expression and half at the memories the tale stirred. "Believe me, that story worked miracles on all of us."

Wulfryk appeared somewhat sceptical, if clearly amused by the picture of his housecarl being intimidated into the washtub by his mother.

"Didn't your parents ever try to scare you into obedience with terrifying stories?" Argis asked, genuinely curious. They had never outright spoken about such private matters, but he recalled having mentioned his family a couple of times. Wulf had yet to lose a single word about his.

Argis knew it was the wrong thing to ask the moment the other man went still. He appeared to be at a loss for words for probably the first time ever since the beginning of their acquaintanceship.

Wulf swallowed and, not meeting his housecarl's eyes, quietly said, "Father wasn't big on stories."

Argis nodded and accepted that this was all he was going to get out of the other Nord, and decided to change the topic. "What did you mean earlier when you said you were working? I thought sleep was a pastime of yours."

Wulf leapt at the opportunity, regaining his balance from his earl slip with astonishing speed. "Oh, no. I have turned into a vocation and an art," he responded, playing along for once, if only to keep his housecarl from prying any further. "I try not to be an ass when I'm on a job. Call it my professional side."

Wulf's professional side lasted all of ten minutes through packing, until he got up and knuckled his back with a pained expression. "I swear I was a foot taller, before my legs decided to take up permanent residence in my arse."

Argis decided not to comment other than ask, "I thought I remember you saying you liked to walk."

The dark haired Nord appeared to regret ever voicing that particular sentiment. "Yes, but I've never had anybody who could run me into the ground, Sunshine," he said. "Caravans are slow things, mostly. And merchants are not soldiers – they like a comfortable inn and good food as much as the next man. So it wasn't very hard. Unlike this hiking thing." He lapsed back into complaining. "Who first saw a mountain and thought, 'Oh, hey this looks really big and steep. Let's waste our time and health on climbing it!' Somebody should invent a way to go under mountains. Or through them."

"Somebody already did," Argis said. "Many of the Dwemer ruins you can enter on one side of a range and exit on the other."

"Really?" Wulf's eyes had lit up at the news in a way that Argis found to be quite worrisome. "I think I'd like to visit one of them someday."

He had mentioned something like that before, and as much as Argis understood the initial fascination with the ancient ruins, the close experience with them had cured him of it. "I advise against it, my Thane. They're full of things that want to kill you."

Wulf tilted his head to the side in a playful way. "Which makes them different from the Reach – how?"

"Well." Argis allowed himself a moment to think of an answer. "The view isn't as nice."

Wulf barked out a surprised laugh that ended in a coughing fit. "Yeah, that's a valid concern." He shook his head and paced around the fire, handing his housecarl a fork. "Will you keep an eye on breakfast? Nature's calling." With that he strode away towards the edge of the forest.

"This isn't funny, you know!" Argis directed his reply at the dark haired Nord's back, but despite his gruff tone he felt the smile tug at his lips and pursed them. Better not to give his Thane any ideas.

"It wasn't supposed to be," Wulf hollered in answer. "Now that you mention it, though... " He turned and winked, before disappearing between the trees.

 oooo

Three hours later Argis was regretting not having shut him up when he'd had the chance. He wasn't sure what he had done to deserve the _pun_ ishment.

"You know," Wulf drawled and the housecarl steeled himself for what was coming next. "You could just turn a blind eye."

The housecarl drew a deep breath and released it again in a massive sigh that bore a striking resemblance to the last moan of a dying horker. He heard Wulfryk's spontaneous fits of sniggering behind him for the next couple of minutes. The one time he turned to look back, Argis was hit with the full force of his Thane's smile, the white of the other man's teeth flashing brightly as the patches of snow in the sunlight against the black contrast of his beard.

Argis had had plenty of time to observe its effects on his men. And he wasn't immune himself. If Wulf wasn't hell-bent on picking a fight, he had an innate gift for fitting in, for putting everybody around him at ease. Outsiders might look upon their group and never be able to pick out who was the Thane.

"What? No more jokes?" the blond Nord asked when a couple of minutes went by without another comment.

Wulf regarded him with the most serious yet crestfallen expression Argis had beheld on a man ever since he had had to explain to a drunk Lars why all his sweetrolls were gone. "I used up all my best ones."

Argis put arm around his shoulders in silent support. The warrior opened his mouth, only to forget what it was he was going to say. He could see the corner of Wulf's mouth twitch, breaking up his sombre facade. Wulf was close enough that the housecarl could count the laugh lines around his eyes, and make out a small scar at the corner of his left one.

And then he was all too aware of just how close they were, could feel the ghost of Wulf's exhale on his cheek, and catch the scent of the sweet mint the other man had been chewing. And, for one brief, perfect moment, he considered giving in.

Argis might have done something stupid then, but the opportunity passed when the silence of the canyon they were walking in was torn asunder by a screeching roar so loud it caused several flocks of birds to take to the sky.

"What the-" Argis looked around. All his life he had spent in the Reach, and he had never heard anything quite like it. He knew the angry roar of a pair of sabrecats fighting over territory, and that of hungry cave bears woken by the spring thaw, but this was definitely neither of those. No animal that he knew made a sound like this. Whatever it was, it had to be huge.

"What was that?" At a loss, he looked to the man at his side, only to find that Wulf had gone rigid under his arm.

"We need to hide. Now." His Thane sounded calm, but he was as pale as fresh winter snow.

Argis did not question the strange order, as it came from the warrior who had laughed when they had attacked an entire camp of Forsworn and believed killing hagravens on his very own was a great joke. He knew there would be a time for answers, and this was not it.  

Wulf was already halfway to a cluster of boulders the size of a small hut before Argis had managed to do as much as open the clasps on his pack. Not happy about leaving his effects behind, he nonetheless dropped his gear and legged it across the ravine, almost twisting an ankle on a loose stone. Up ahead, Wulf had rolled under the rocks and was beckoning wildly for his housecarl to follow suit.

Damp debris did not make for the most alluring of places to lie down in, but they had some good cover here. From what, Argis could only guess. He was about to ask his Thane, when he heard the other man's breath catch. Wulfryk was on his back, unmindful of the trickle of water that was soaking his clothing, eyes scanning the sky.

As if he expected it to come from-

Argis saw the shadow first. Over the rocky ground it moved, liquid and dark, swallowing what sunlight covered the rock-strewn ground. All warmth seeped out of the world as its serrated edge passed over them, and then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone again.

That's when he saw it.

As beautiful as it was terrifying, the dragon glided through the cloudless sky with the grace of an airborne predator. It was hard to make out details against the blinding light of the sun, but Argis caught the copper glint of its scales, and the darker edges along its outline that looked like spikes, giving the otherwise sleek body a bulkier appearance. He heard the resounding crack as the beast beat its powerful wings once, the motion propelling it forward seemingly without effort.

The dragon began to circle almost directly above them. Once, twice, then half a dozen times, and all Argis could do was to stare at its underbelly, mesmerized by the motion of its flight. Dragons were the stuff of legends; reminiscent to a bygone age. They were the sort of magnificent, deadly beings you only heard of in the stories of old, and not something you came across whilst tracking through the wilds in pursuit of Forsworn.

The beast let out another screeching roar, a sound so powerful it made the very ground shake. Argis watched as it spiralled upwards, rising higher into the air to become a small speck against the endless blue of the sky, no bigger than a bird before it flew on.

"Fuck me sideways."

"Another time, maybe?" Wulf's eyes were closed, and whilst he wasn't exactly shaking, his dark complexion had an ashen pallor that allowed him to blend in with the washed out rock he was lying on.

Argis knew that he too ought to be afraid, but strangely enough instead of any kind of fear, a strange feeling of elation had taken hold of him. How many others had had the fortune to witness what they just had? Minutes ticked by, and he still could not believe his eyes; Wulf's terrible jokes be damned. Once in a lifetime a man might be lucky enough to come across something worthy of song, of a good story he could tell until the end of his days, and maybe even take with him to Sovngarde. And this was it, of that the housecarl was sure.

"That was a dragon."

"Well observed," Wulf replied. They were still lying under the boulders, motionless in case the beast came back.

"I thought they were all dead." It was a meaningless statement in light of the truth. Argis knew that huntsmen and scouts ofttimes reported of finding bones too big to belong to any creature alive. Mammoths seldom traversed the rough terrain of the Reach, and never did they climb the mountain peaks, or guard strange stone monuments with ancient carvings etched in the stone so long ago, they were worn off by wind and rain until their outlines could barely be made out.

Few there were who did not know at least a fragment of the saga; of when mankind had been under the rule of the wyrms of Akatosh, and of Alduin, the black dragon who in his greed wanted to swallow the world. He found his demise at the hands of the ancient heroes, when the Nord people had learned the secret of the Thu'um and harnessed its power to strike back against their subjugators. They had prevailed, and the dragons were now gone from the world, hunted until extinction by the bravest of warriors.

Argis might never get the chance to test his prowess against such a foe, but that was not the sole reason for his excitement turning to melancholy. He would never forget the sight, etched as it was into his mind – even if he wouldn't experience it again. For some reason the dragon circling over the peaks of the Reach felt... right. It was as wild and untamed a thing as the Reach itself, its lonesome cries still ringing in the air, distorted by distance though it was long gone from sight.

His Thane was not sharing any of the housecarl's enthusiasm at their discovery, nor any of his astonishment. Argis realized that Wulfryk had not reacted to the roar with surprise, or dread at the unknown source, but that he had recognized the sound for what it had been. "You knew."

Wulf swallowed and gave him a tiny nod, not looking at the man at his side, but up as if he was afraid the dragon would return the moment he tore his eyes away. "A dragon burned down Helgen."

"You -," Argis began before he changed his tack. He was shocked to find the rumours confirmed and by the fact that it was evident Wulf knew more of the event than he let on. That he had mentioned it at all seemed a confession, and not one he would make lightly. Argis took the piece of information in, but did not press, storing it away for a time when he felt like could address it. The Nord braced himself on one elbow, the bone digging into the hard underground painfully. He could see the sky reflected in his Thane's eyes, a lighter shade of blue. "Are you alright?"

As if on cue, Wulf rolled to his feet and stood hugging himself. He appeared cold despite his warm clothes, and them being in the full light of the pale winter sun. "No. Not really."

 

xxxx

 

"This must be it."

Wulf looked up to see Argis studying the mountain peaks around them. More mountains for them to climb or cross. By now he was sick of mountains. The one good thing to be said about them was that they provided lots of possible cover – for them and for every Forsworn in this madmen-infested hold.

"There is the Shepherd. And this one's ChoróinBhaintrí, Widow's Crown." Argis appeared sure of himself as he pointed towards the east. "This is the right valley. I think we are just behind that camp."

"Great." Wulf's gaze followed the direction of his housecarl's finger, but since he was not familiar with the land, the names meant nothing to him. He hefted his backpack higher, readjusting its position. "Is has been a lovely trip. Can we go back now?" he asked.

Argis just drew up one eyebrow and Wulfryk guessed that turning back was not an option at this point.

"Please tell me there's at least a nice tavern waiting for us. One where busty maids will serve us breakfast in bed and the worst thing that can happen to us is some burly old sod with an apron and a funny moustache for an innkeeper." Given what awaited them at the end of their journey, Wulf felt like he was entitled to a bit of pessimism.

He had that queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that never bode well. Or maybe he shouldn't have drunk from that one stream. Who knew?

Argis didn't even break stride to retort, "Keep your eyes peeled, then. Closest place they serve mead is Sovngarde."

Damn him. He had picked up on the rules of this game way too fast.

"I hate you, housecarl," Wulf grumbled unhappily.

He had been tense ever since they had sighted that dragon, and would have preferred travelling at night, but Argis was more afraid of them stumbling into ravines or getting lost than he was of being roasted alive and eaten by a giant lizard. Wulf thought his housecarl needed to get his priorities straight. He knew that they could not afford any delay, or they might be trapped by the cold and the snows, but although that threat was very much present, it didn't seem nearly as terrifying as the unknown dangers lurking ahead. He had survived cold, starvation, and barbaric tribesmen trying to murder him before.

It was one thing to face an enemy, somebody he could fight with sword and bow, even magic, but dragons were another matter entirely. They were clever, flying, fire-spitting harbingers of death, and a problem Wulf had hoped to have left far behind him when he had fled Whiterun. It was bad enough news to learn that the World-Eater was still raising his dead kin, they did not need any close encounters with the monsters. At least, according to Paarthurnax, another dragon meant that the black bastard himself would not make an appearance for at least a couple of months.

Wulf remembered Helgen all too clearly for comfort – the screams of soldiers and civilians alike trapped by the city walls, the feeling of being a sitting duck for something neither of them was capable of fighting, and all the time fire and rocks rained down on them. He never wanted to live through anything the like again. Therefore it seemed that fate itself was mocking him, when a scarce few months later Mirmulnir had attacked. And from there everything had gone downhill.

Wulf tried to tell himself that the dragon's appearance had nothing to do with him, that it had probably lived here nearby before. Lots of those damned mountains; that had to be it. Dragons liked mountains, which was another reason for him to _dislike_ them. It must have been hunting. With some luck it would find the Forsworn and eat them all, thus ridding them of the necessity to go looking for the crazy, dead-raising, Daedra worshipping savages themselves.

"What now?" Wulf wanted to know, somewhat cheered up by that last thought.

"Now it's time we do what we came here for," Argis answered grimly, cocking his head to the side to get rid of a crick in his neck. Wulfryk had to admit, his housecarl looked very determined.

 oooo

That evening they had no fire to keep them warm, only a cold meal and an overgrown ditch to roll up in. Wulf wrapped himself in the warmest clothes he had and spent the remainder of the night dozing fitfully. Come dawn his mantle was covered in a thin sheet of ice and for the first time ever he was glad when Argis had them moving again.

After an hour of steadily marching uphill they came upon a gully cutting through a steep slope. It looked like a landslide, or maybe an avalanche had once occurred here. Dense thickets of mountain pine grew on either side of the ravine, hiding them from view. The going was slow, and the footing treacherous; loose rocks and crumbling earth shifted with every step, trying to drag them downwards again. That they had barely enough light to get by did not make the climb any easier.

At the end of it they were rewarded with the sight of the huge, bowl-shaped valley lying below them. They'd have to wait for morning's light to reveal the entire encampment to them, as nothing but the countless fires smouldering at its bottom could be made out yet.

Argis snorted derisively at the sight. "They keep chopping up trees like that they'll save us the bother of killing them come spring." Before Wulf could ask what he meant by that, the blond warrior pointed out a dark silhouette against the slowly greying sky. "Hag's Rock is just up there."

The sun was rising while Wulf and Argis crept along the mountain ridge, carefully making their way closer to the ruins. This early the shadows were longest, providing plenty of cover, but it would not last for long.

"Won't they be able to spot us from up there?" Wulf asked when they allowed themselves a short break. He squinted towards the remains of a tower on top of what that once must have been a formidable fortress. Especially if one considered that it stood in the middle of nowhere.

"The ruins don't overlook this part of the valley," Argis said and took the piece of hard cheese Wulf offered him. "I think they were meant to face east. This was once a temple of some sort, with a watchtower on top." He took a bite and climbed to his feet with a grunt. "You good to go?"

Wulf sighed heavily and accepted the hand offered to him. He freed his small recurve from its protective wrappings of oiled leathers, and stepped through the bow to string it. In case they needed to get rid of someone quickly and quietly from a distance. He nodded to Argis and they set out again.

Their way wound steadily upwards until they were practically hugging the stonework. Everything around them appeared still. Cattle and goats were grazing on the far slopes, and Wulf could now spot the round shapes of stone huts clustered at the lowest part of the camp. He prayed that the enemy was yet asleep and that no shepherd on his way to take his morning leak looked their way.

So far things had gone surprisingly smoothly. They did not encounter any sentries before reaching a small overgrown circular platform that looked like it might have been the fortress' courtyard a very long time ago. Its crumbling walls would shield them from any eyes from below, but not above.

Argis rid himself of his pack and crawled to the edge to have a better view of the Forsworn camp.

"They're here for the winter, alright," the warrior said after a while.

Wulf had the feeling there was more to come, but Argis did not volunteer it, instead chewing on the inside of his cheek until the dark haired Nord could stand it no longer. "What?" He kept his eyes on the tower above them, watchful of the slightest sign of movement behind one of its narrow embrasures.

"There's rocks blocking my sight and 'they're here' isn't much of a report," Argis admitted. "I want to get the layout of the camp, get an estimated count of heads then get out of here and put as many miles between us and them as we can."

And, as Wulf understood it, the sooner they did the former the sooner they could do the latter. "Let's go then."

A short flight of weather-worn stairs took them to a door. Argis undid a small latch and it opened, allowing them to step into a dark corridor that opened up to a spacious hall. It was not long before their eyes had adjusted and Wulf could make out a large round staircase leading downwards. There seemed to be more rooms on the other side of the chamber, but it they were in the wrong direction to belong to the tower.

Another passageway away and they found what they had been looking for. Above them the wooden ceiling had half rotted away, and broken planks were littering the ground. The whole place smelled of disuse and decay.

"They don't seem to come up here," Wulf observed, holding one hand up to cover his nose. It was surprising, insofar as this tower was the best vantage point one could ask for.

"Means one thing," Argis replied quietly, with his voice nearly dropped to a whisper. "If there's a place Forsworn won't go, it's because something nastier is keeping them away. Never wonder why the lock was on the outside?"

"You mean another one of those hag-things?" Wulf asked, confused. "I thought you once said they worshipped them."

"Sure they do - right up until they get ritually sacrificed to please the Old Gods," Argis muttered, and glared at the ceiling.

Wulf was sure the beams were very thoroughly intimidated; he'd be amazed if they dared to do as much as squeak. He thought of something clever to say in answer to the revelation of human sacrifices, but truth be told it wasn't worth the bother. He wasn't even surprised anymore. What came next? Cannibal cultures and worshipping of Molag Bal?

"If we meet a hagraven, things will be bad."

"We can kill her." Wulf had done so without much trouble, and he was sure Argis had put dozens of gross lady-bird hybrids in the ground.

"Sure. Then she's dead and every Forwsorn will know somebody was here and try to find the ones responsible.

There was that. "Right. Never mind, them."

Argis was still considering the benefits of going up for a better view versus the risk of discovery when Wulf's ears picked out the last thing he wanted to hear.

"Somebody's coming up."

The glance the housecarl shot his Thane clearly stated that he hoped that the only thing making an appearance was the dark haired warrior's inappropriate sense of humour. But Wulf was dead serious, listening to the some sound only he could hear.

It was decided, them. Wulf and Argis tiptoed upstairs and skirted along the outer edge of the floor, careful, because the old wood did not give the appearance of being able to withstand the weight of one of the men. Maybe they were lucky and the Forsworn was just passing through or on a routine stroll. But no, the steps kept coming closer until stopped directly under them. Breathless seconds passed in which neither man dared to move a muscle.

Wulf nearly jumped when all of a sudden a male voice called out,

"Àrd-mhàthairurramach!"

He shot his houscarl an alarmed glance. The bow and arrow were in his hands, he only had to step from cover, draw and let fly. They did have a chance, however slim, at outrunning their enemy, but none if his man brought all the Forsworn down on them. Wulf made eye contact with Argis, ready to step forward, but the blond shook his head ever so slightly.

No answer came from above, and the man below shuffled ere he called out again, "Àrd-mhàthair urramach! Iarrann do mhac maithiúnas do cur isteach ort, ach tá do béile ullmhaithe."

Wulf didn't understand a word, but to his ears the Forsworn sounded nervous to the point of being afraid. Again there was no reply, but Wulfryk was watching only the man next to him. His housecarl signalled him to wait, gentle pressure of his fingers pushing the Thane's bow down.

From below there was a clank, like that of something being put down, and then Wulf listened to the Forsworn pace, before the man's footsteps began to retreat and he could trace them no longer.. Faintly, the sound of a door closing somewhere reached his ears, and only then did he allow all the penned up air to escape his lungs with a great sigh. "I think he's gone."

"Good," Argis grunted. "Give me a few minutes." He made his way to the window, where he went still.

Wulfryk could only see Argis' blond head, and assumed that he was memorizing the layout of the camp, getting a count of the tents to estimate the Forsworn numbers. Each and every scrap of information would help the soldiers in the summer campaigns. He only wished his housecarl would hurry up. Already the sky was turning to alabaster, sunrise was but minutes away.

It was time for them to go. They now knew the information the soldiers had gotten out of their captives was accurate. There was another camp here – more slaughter for the warriors once they tired of mead and idleness, and began to thirst for blood. What more did they need? And what was taking Argis so long?

Wulf began to pace a little. His feet carried him to the last flight of stairs of their own accord. He could hear something, only an echo of a whisper, but it was there, coming from above. Like an old melody, he remembered the tune, could almost make the words. He only needed to get a little closer. He did not even notice taking the first step upwards.

"Two clans," Argis said in a hushed voice.

Wulf stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"I said there's at least two clans here, if not more. They're keeping apart." He turned back to face the window.

Wulf shook his head. No, that wasn't it. "No, before that." He missed the brief look Argis cast him, before the blond shook his head and went back to studying the Forsworn camp.

Meanwhile, Wulfryk cocked his head to better make out the murmur. "Do you hear that?"

The housecarl grunted in annoyance. "Hear what?"

If Wulf had an answer, he might have told him. He only knew that he had to follow, that this was a summon he could not resist. The stairs took him to the top of the tower, where a small plateau overlooked the basin below. Here he found what he was looking for. The wall was just as he remembered, dark of stone with carvings of dragons adorning its sides. It called to him.

From below he could hear Argis' call out in confusion.

"Wulf? "

"I'm here, Wulf answered absent-mindedly, far too softly for the other man to hear. He was nearly there now, the chant was getting louder with every step.

"My Thane?"

Everything around Wulf faded back to darkness, but amidst it there was a blue glow, and it continued to grow. He could almost make it out –

"Wulfryk!"

Wulf wasn't sure why, but Argis shouldn't be shouting.

One word stood out clearly amidst lined of script that appeared to have been etched into the rock by something with terribly large claws. FAAS. He remembered its meaning, from his lessons with the Greybeards. _Fear_. He could feel it, too, but it was that of another man, far away. What a strange thing to find inside a falling-apart tower.

The mist cleared and Wulf had to blink for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of dawn. He got as far as opening his mouth to object, before he noticed the scene unfurling before him. The stone table, the tower had just come from, Argis' shocked face. For the first time since he had come to know him, the housecarl looked scared.

And between them crouched the hagraven, her disfigured, claw-like hands aglow with magic.

Wulf pointed at the stone behind him. "Wonderful wall you have here. I was just admiring it. Please. There's no need to get up on my behalf." She couldn't understand what he was saying, but Wulf kept talking, more for his own sake than because he truly believed it would help.

"What a lovely place, did you decorate it yourself?" The hagraven hissed at him. "Not my style, but to each his own, right?"

He made a tiny motion towards the blood splattered alter. Flies buzzed around the severed head of a dead skeever. The small animal's entrails were spilled over the table, the blood staining the surface a rusty brown. Soulgems were arranged around the offering, and candles, burned down to mere stumps, flickered in pools of wax.

Why didn't shady magical rituals or mythical readings ever entail nice things? Like dandelions. There was nothing bad to be said about dandelions.

Wulf knew what soulgems were, and what they were used for, and shuddered. "I think I'll leave now."

He had nearly inched his way past the altar before the hagraven shook off her bewilderment at the unannounced visitor. Wulf didn't get a warning before his vision was filled with fire.

Maybe it was because he was standing next to the damned dragon wall that he thought to Shout.

Not that he actually raised his voice. FEIM was but a sigh, spoken so softly it carried on a mere breath. Wulf felt scalding heat and then sound and sight ceased to be as the Shout carried him outside of this reality.

When he snapped back, it was to see the dead hag drop from Argis' grip. The housecarl's face was pale and drawn in what Wulf first took to be grief. He wasn't sure, but the other man actually seemed to be shaking. Their eyes met, and Wulfryk saw Argis' good eye widen in surprise.

And then,

"Have you lost your mind!?" the blond warrior bellowed at the top of his lungs, while Wulf still trying to beat out a small fire smouldering on top of his charred leathers.

Shouts were coming from somewhere far below. Wulfryk realized that the fireballs exploding against the rock must have made awoken the entire camp. They were fucked, and Argis had nothing better to do but go on about what kind of a shithead his Thane was to nearly let himself be killed by a hagraven so he could spend his last heartbeats staring at a blank wall.

Wulf had enough trouble focusing over the over the buzzing building in the back of his mind. He understood that they needed to go, but thinking was nearly impossible with his head feeling like it was stuffed with tundra cotton, and he had not regained the ability to communicate his thoughts yet. The warrior didn't really want to deal with his housecarl's attitude right on top of what he knew was coming any second now. "Oh, shut up," he managed to grind out and was glad when it came out in Nord.

Wonder of wonders, the other man did and Wulfryk enjoyed a full second of unbridled, uninterrupted panic.

_Dovahkiin!_

"Son of a – " Argis never got to finish his sentence.

With the sun finally slipping over the old stones high above, so did the spiked shape of the dragon. It perched on the cliff, long claws clicking against the rock in an almost idle manner. The beast's hot breath stirred up a puff of dust from the ground, carrying the smell of molten rock and rancid meat. Its wings remained spread, spanning the horizon. The world narrowed down to the ancient dovah and one dark haired warrior standing before it, tiny by comparison.

"Drem Yol Lok." Wulf registered how his voice sounded funny, how it did not seem to be him speaking. Had he moved his lips? He couldn't remember. He didn't know how he had managed to form words through the burning ache in his clenched throat.

The dragon chuckled, and the sound of it did nothing to put Wulf at ease.

 _Dovahkiin. Zu'u koraav hi. Zu'u sahlon hin faas._ _Zu'u ken suleyk do hin thu'um._ _Ru mal joor, waan hi lorot nii fen sav hi. Dii in lost uth hin dukiin._

_Ful nii fent kos._

That last sentence sounded awfully final.

Wulf didn't think he had ever moved as fast as he did then, but he'd be damned if he died here and now, to that dragon. He had not seen his thirtieth nameday yet. He didn't know the names of Lydia's babes, and he hadn't kissed the stubborn ass that was his housecarl.

But he did hit the surprised man at full run, which toppled the warrior and sent them both flying.

YOLTOOR-

Wulf was already mid-air, wildly waving his arms as the floor of the tower rushed up to meet him. He had a split second to regret his decision, and then he crashed into the ground, broke through it, and continued his flight down. Wulfryk hit the bottom hard and tried rolled to lessen the impact of his landing, but his pack threw him off-balance. He felt a sharp jolt shoot through his ankle, and then the world was upside-down and full of pain. Somebody was beating him up good, and he tried to curl himself into a ball and to cover his head with his arms.

It didn't last long, was over before he figured out what had happened. Wulf came to a stop, head-down, his body sprawled out on the stairs. Everything hurt. He was going to throw up. Life was terrible. Maybe he should have let the dragon end it.

Next to him Argis picked himself off the floor which was littered with planks and pieces of broken wood from the ceiling. The blond appeared stunned by the fall, but not hurt beyond the bruises they would both be sporting. It wasn't fair. The housecarl hadn't even let go of his shield and for some reason that stuck Wulfryk as hilarious. He couldn't laugh, only gasp for breath, mesmerized by the sight of the gates of Markarth glowing cherry red, just like the picture behind his eyelids when Wulf blinked his eyes. He'd had enough of being set on fire for a day, so he did his best to keep them open.

Thankfully the shield's enchantment provided enough light to see by. Wulf rolled to all fours, battered and bruised, but miraculously not injured – not that he could tell – and decided he was going to live after all.

With the dragon's angry roars reverberating from the top of the tower, there was only one way they could go from here. A rusty gate at the bottom of the stairs blocked any further passages lying behind it. Argis broke the corroded hinges with a kick, and tossed the iron grate to the side, but he appeared hesitant to step into the dark corridor.

"We don't know where this leads."

"Anything's better than what's waiting outside," Wulf shouted back, because his hearing had turned into a thin beeping sound.

As if to underline his words, the screams began a moment later. Wulfryk wished he could tune those out as well or pass out. Unconsciousness sounded tempting at this point. He concentrated on staying upright instead, and somehow managed the descent, hopping down the stairs on one foot.

Another large chamber followed a short corridor. A spiral staircase with a large gap where its middle steps once had been led to what Wulf recognized as one of the stone mounds they had seen dotting the dale. It had a door of iron bars, and through them they could see the dragon fly circles over the burning encampment.

Wulf doubted he could make the climb to the top, battered as he was. And if it did, and they somehow managed to get the gate open, where would they go? Out, where the Forsworn were? Not to mention a dragon which had nearly killed them a moment ago? As much as he enjoyed the sight of the blue sky, Wulf would rather remain indoors.

He was granted his wish in the next instance when the dragon brought down the tower they had fled but a moment ago. Wulf had a glimpse of the structure toppling over with an earth-shattering boom. The very ground shook from the collapse, from tons of stones cascading down, and then the word outside went under in a grey cloud of dust. Darkness settled over the room which had been illuminated by beams of sunlight mere seconds ago.

Wulfryk stumbled away, coughing, and used his arm to shield his face. There was no going back that way, now.

The only way that remained open to them was down.

His ankle hurt every time he put some weight on it, but he didn't think it was broken. Not unless the shock was masking the pain. 'He'd have to remember to check his leg for swelling later,' Wulf thought. For now survival was everything that counted. He had understood enough of the dovahzul to know the dragon was not here by mere circumstance.

They descended into older parts of the ruins. Faceless statues held their eternal vigil in niches and the walls were adorned with runes. Carvings Wulf recognized all too well. Argis' previous comment about the lock being on the outside made even more sense now. The Forsworn weren't trying to keep intruders out. There were trying to keep whatever was inside these ruins in.

"The barrow?" Argis asked, when they came to a stop in front of a huge double-doors hewn of stone. He was still furious, his anger evident by his tight poise and voice. "Why not throw us down that beast's maw? Would be quicker."

Wulf shrugged in answer, not in the mood to explain his choices. They were lucky that blighted tower had not collapsed right on top of their heads. He would rather risk the dangers of the old Nord tomb a thousand times over than face what was waiting in lay outside. Wulf called an orb of light to his shield-hand and pushed the slid wooden bar to the side. The slightest touch of his hand was enough to open the doors, and they swung inwards with an ominous creak. The crypt dark as the proverbial grave, the air from below icy and fetid, but it was a danger he was familiar with.

From outside the monster's sonorous voice still called out in challenge of the dragonborn. Well, the dragon could kiss dovahkiin's ass. One camp of Forsworn he was fine with. Two, one after the other, were a crowd. Add a dratted magic wall that robbed him of all his wits and dragon into that, and the situation became a bloody mess – quite literally – and Wulfryk had no desire to partake in this little party, oh no. Dovahkiin was beating it. Wulf sent out the light to illuminate the vault in front of them and limped ahead, where the dragon's bellows faded into hollow silence, broken only by the echo of Argis' heavy tread.

~ END OF PART ONE ~


End file.
